Time For a Change
by Jak-of-a-Few-Trades
Summary: "I told you we needed a plan B!" Memories always come back to haunt you one way or another, but this is a little extreme. But hey, they always said the future is riddled with challenges! Or, uh... was it the past? AU set after Jak III.
1. Chapter 1 - Deference

**\- Chapter 1 - Deprivation -  
**

It was never considered odd that crying just wasn't something Jak did. It was a sign of weakness in this world, and he wasn't known to show it. Yet, he _never_ cried. Instead, he took out any reasons through other means. Unfortunately, the gun course runs out of targets or wandering bands of marauders get the hint, and even the local bars begin to refuse him at one point. Luckily for the latter, they had just stopped taking payment from the brooding blonde instead of being forced to kick him out before his liver broke up with him.

Even as the bars stopped themselves from becoming another target to that ever-growing list of enemies, it was safe to say what happened after. Anyone was considered unfortunate if they found themselves at the end of that gun, especially during another fruitless attempt at repressing bottled up emotions. Even that wince from Daxter when an additional bullet would crack into a corpse wasn't enough. It was always for 'good measure,' he'd say, with Haven Forest never looking bloodier than when he _confronted_ his feelings on Sig becoming a meal for a metal head.

There just weren't ever enough enemies to release his pent-up feelings. Not this time.

He lost his father. His real father. Not the one that his uncle stuttered out about how he, too, was a great man, but the one that truly was. The one that had barely even knew him before giving up his life for the son he never knew. The feeling inside had sunken low now that Jak knew Damas had given up everything out of respect.

Even when ebony claws sunk into flesh, ripping apart marauders as if they were little more than paper cutouts, Damas was proud. It always grew in the form of a smile, a discussion of wise words, or a lecture of advice. The king's newfound excitement wasn't from the pride of having a strong warrior with the abilities of Jak at his side, but rather that it came from a standing symbol of survival far greater than the wasteland could offer.

The second time in the arena he decided to reward them with a show. The crowd fell into an uproar of animation as they watched the utter decimation before them. Marauders, once standing tall in the face of such prying eyes, now laid mangled, slashed open, and torn apart in view for speculation. The cheering from the onlookers wouldn't stop, even as Jak approached their king nestled in a fury of reds. They were just as proud of him as Damas was and for the first time, blood didn't bother Jak. Daxter did complain that some got on him, but that didn't matter. The wastelanders saw through it all. They didn't see a freak, but a fellow wastelander that survived the plight of the world and came out on top.

It never became more obvious once Daxter began chatting on about how much they were admired here, running on tangents about how he wouldn't be surprised to see fliers amuck praising them. Imagining banners exulting their new wastelander who managed to turn an army of marauders into a pile in seconds, in truth, wouldn't be a new sight. There always were fliers, though Jak knew most proclaimed him to be what everyone thought: a monster. Or a murderer. Or worse...

Jak was never seen as the boy from Sandover who lost it all to save them. And now, when papers fluttered against a wall, it bothered him because he knew they weren't all the Baron's propaganda of the Underground.

To not be treated with disgust or fear for existing was an old feeling turned new. He could feel relaxed parading the streets of Spargus to the palace tower or the buggy ring for his next assignment. There was no fear twisting inside and expulsing itself in the form of worry that others saw the beast in teen's clothing. Or the sense of dread that someone, anyone, would alert others that there was blood on his hands. It was just something Haven branded into him.

And yet, as simple as it was, a passing nod made Jak feel wanted. It made him feel human, even. For once, he wasn't seen as some weapon or monster but as a boy who fought and won against the odds. That sense of belonging returned from the days of Sandover, which he consequently believed that he owed Damas and the city more than just his gratitude and gun for accomplishing what seemed more than impossible.

He was given a home. It was something Haven refused to offer. Of course, Daxter was always with him, but the Naughty Ottsel's second floor was not exactly home worthy.

There was no doubt that, from then on, Jak would do anything for Damas and the city. And he had. He heeded every wise word, fulfilled the many requests and missions without putting in a second thought, and risked his life to prove himself worthy. Much to Daxter's fear, it had reached a point to where if Damas asked Jak to shoot himself in the foot, then the gun would have fired before there was even an explanation. He never wanted to think about what the blonde would do if the king told him to "break a leg."

However, Social situations, much like that one and the one now, were never handled well on part of Jak only being able to voice his opinions for several years. Most found blame in retaliation he would receive from something other than a nasally voice, which never did bode well when that voice of reason came back. Saying that sarcasm went over his head, in which Daxter originated Jak diving into details he thought were there. He never did learn how to properly display emotions through words, but that never bothered the ottsel who easily interpreted the facial expressions the blonde heavily relied on.

Unfortunately, that made the grieving process worse. No one ever learned that Jak was the son of the King of Spargus. None learned how badly Damas' death could have affected him.

Jak hadn't gone punching out his emotions this time. He knew well enough that Daxter caught on to it, but wearing your heart on your sleeve was something he never did or liked to talk about. The only thing that shown through was a tough, pensive look as thoughts ran maliciously through his head. The belief that things could have been different if he confronted the truth earlier was a thought that only he could understand.

Walking to his cot in dead silence, Jak dwelled on that thought. Spargus became a city that was entrapped in both mourning and celebration, a macabre revelation that the Precursors' wished to be treated as gods before abandoning the world again.

He ignored the passing wastelanders who sympathized with the one who lost so much. This time, the nods and smiles didn't mean anything. They tried to tell him that he wasn't the reason their king died. That his father's sacrifice wasn't his fault.

He didn't care.

* * *

It was late, and Jak had spent most of the day wandering aimlessly through the palace, rummaging through Damas' old possessions. Sig was Spargus' new king, and as nothing was wasted in this city, it was customary for the new ruler to be gifted what the last owned. The tall wastelander never did like to see the teen depressed and apparently thought that maybe this would bring Jak some closure.

Save for what remained from being Haven's exalted heir of Mar, Damas owned little to his name. A torn banner sat lifelessly as small trinkets that were emblazoned with the seal of Mar laid bare in a stone chest. The dust that covered them etched the thought-to-be-dead lineage in the now empty halls of the Spargan palace. Gifts from other wastelanders, and now they were memories of the past left to haunt him, mocking such a strong name that was exiled from the city it made. Jak, too, was thrown and dragged through the dust as these relics had. Damas always seemed the man of deserved power, but the days of Mar were always very much behind him.

Despite Sig's good-hearted intentions of helping, it only gave Jak more to digest. There sat the throne, once seating a man worthy of it, admonished by its emptiness. Jak could only give a half smile, replaying what memories he had of Damas as the trinkets were taken away. What good memories he had.

"You ok, big guy?" Daxter asked, shutting the cheap wooden door behind him. He noticed that Jak had been still and lethargic ever since they announced Damas' death to Spargus. Their savior, standing in the corner quietly as Sig gave an emotional speech on how Damas died honorably fighting for a fellow wastelander, was not something the Ottsel was fine with. He had grown quieter and tense at every mention of the name. Daxter could only compare it to himself seeing Jak die, but knowing him he would have challenged the grim reaper and won.

Tearing off his goggles, Jak mumbled something. He fumbled with them uncomfortably before placing them down on the stand closest to him. It was the same act he went through when anything bothered him. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Daxter about, Precursors know he does, but there was no point in stressing themselves out more by complicating things.

"Tired? You and me both," Daxter piped into the nonexistent conversation. The ottsel paced the room, pushing the curtain from the back window to allow moonlight to partially illuminate the dusty floor. He jumped to the bed and stretched out next to Jak, who was now pulling at leather boot straps. "Just imagine when everyone finds out I'm a Precursor. The Spooky Kabuki show is gonna flip!"

A light chuckle escaped the blonde's lips.

Daxter grinned at the win, standing up with hands on his hips. "I'll have 'em begging for their god's forgiveness. Have a few statues erected in my honor, and maybe use that Precursor crap they got stashed away to rule the world." Nudging Jak's thigh, he continued, "y'know, being my sidekick and all, I'll letcha have _special_ privileges."

A large thump as two heavy boots dropped down the side of the bed let the moment go to rack and ruin. Daxter's contiguous dream of power wasn't enough to get Jak out of his funk.

"Dax?"

He knew he was right in how it never would be enough to get Jak's mind off Damas, but it never hurt to get him to laugh at the smallest of jokes. Especially now. He quickly moved to the bracer, fumbling with its straps. "Need help getting ya armor off?"

Too removed in thought to process anything that rang with the nasally voice, Jak didn't say anything. Daxter could only watch as the two long ears lowered, pushing down beneath his hair to rest. He didn't even know what question would stumble out, though the ottsel knew the nature of it and could guess, as could anyone.

"Do you…" Jak mumbled slowly, dourly turning to glimpse down as the left arm-guard came off. "…think he's dead?"

Not knowing how to respond, Daxter stood silently. Looking at the facts, there was the mention of how the Freedom League never found Damas' body. Even the Precursors were puzzled about what happened. If almighty beings and guards who were dumb enough to check every crack and crevice for a towering man couldn't find him, then who could? Damas was a king known for survival, but if he was still alive now he won't be when they find him. Especially after all that...

It wasn't to say Daxter disliked Damas, but he never idolized him like Jak did. Now that he knew Damas was Jak's father, his _real_ father, and that it made his best friend happy, he supposed he could tolerate Damas' speeches on the grandeur of battle. Anyways, a compliment from his kingliness was enough to fuel Jak for a week, which sure did take the strain off of his good ol' book of comedy gold.

Unwittingly deadpanning, Daxter made the situation worse. "He is Damas."

Blue eyes filled with anguish stared at him, ears tilted farther back beyond his hair. Jak's mouth tilted open, expecting clarification for whatever kind of answer that was.

"What I'm trying to say is, he's _Damas_ ," Daxter reiterated, scratching his neck. "Y'know, too stubborn to let a buggy take him out."

As Jak shifted away, Daxter hit his head, literally and figuratively. A buggy of that size, any size for that matter, would have killed anyone if it fell on them. Hell, if it fell on Jak instead they all knew how the story would have ended. Not happily ever after, even if Damas made it just 'ever after.'

Picking himself up off the bed, Jak sighed and grabbed the bracer that had come off. Daxter watched as the other was pulled down. The scarred hand reached around to pull down his shoulder guard straps, placing them on the small table next to his goggles. The greaves soon unbuckled and followed suit.

Daxter hesitated to say anything else. If Jak thought Damas was somehow alive, and that someone would find him by tomorrow with the increase in lookout groups, then maybe everything was going to be alright. He somewhat had gotten the mood back into the realm of positive thinking. And if Jak thought Damas was alive, who was dumb enough to say otherwise?

"You know…"

"Huh?" Daxter stood up on the bed again, only to hear a slight chuckle as Jak held up the chest plate.

"…He did give it to his son."

"You're not getting all teary-eyed on me, right?" Daxter said, chiding himself the moment it slipped. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! Sig's a manly man, much like ourselves over here, and my sweetie-kins slipped to me that he's not much of a newbie when it comes to crying or talking about his feelings. That poopsy-bear ain't the only thing the big lug's hiding. 'Sides, I ain't one to complain if tears get on me 'cause we all know there's been worse."

Jak put down his armor with the rest, going further across the room to draw the curtains closed. Daxter's interceded moment where Jak could have talked about his emotions churned an uneasy feeling throughout him. Though, whether it was because he ruined a good moment by further talking or realized that Sig was out there somewhere planning on bruising a cherry was unclear.

"Cold out," Jak said flatly.

"Yeah, well you ain't getting any warmer standing there." The ottsel patted the hard bed next to him.

Jak smirked at the remark. It was the same smirk he always gave when he lied to himself. He sat down on what many would consider a bed as hard as stone, pulling himself farther in. He rubbed the small lumps starting on his arms, pressing as the goosebumps began to go away. He was thinking too hard about it and Daxter was right. After all, Damas wasn't one to die in such a way. He wouldn't let that kill him, and a body not being found could only solidify that.

As Jak laid down, Daxter had noticed the growing thrush of bumps. He had innocuously thrown the worn blanket over the both of them in the guise of him being 'cold' before wrapping up between the blonde's stomach and arm. "First things first, Jak. Them rings under those baby blues are putting the monk's makeup department to shame. We'll go right out to Haven and find him before ya know it."

"Yeah." He'd have interjected if the slight snoring hadn't shot off immediately as that sentence ended. He found out why they couldn't leave tonight as neither of them had really gotten any sleep in the past week. But if they didn't leave now there was always the chance that…

No. Damas was alive. He had to be.

Darkness was always a time to think, and yet staying awake thinking about the man he called father was worse than any nightmares he would find in his sleep. No matter what happened in them, Jak knew he would wake up to that little orange body in reach, and the slight kicking as his fingers ran reassuringly through the fur. They were never going to get him again now that there were people who would be by his side through it all.

Jak ran his hands through his hair as he contemplated through the unnerving questions that mired his thoughts. What would he do if Damas lived? How would he tell him? Would he _believe_ it? And what if he knew that Damas was his father back then? Would it all have panned out the same in the end?

If only he put together every link sooner. Only a true heir is deemed worthy to open the Tomb of Mar, and his younger self had done just that. Damas announced he was the usurped king of Haven, his son stolen before his exile. Even Kor, though not the most trustworthy, admitted it.

It must have been some Precursian curse to see how ironic it was that he never thought about his father until the moment he lost him. Samos was the only father figure he ever had, and _that_ was a stretch. His uncle was never around as a mentor, only retelling stories of journeys to foreign jungles and deserts before abruptly leaving again. Sig did teach him veritable skills, but how to kill before being killed was not the same as learning how to catch.

Jak remembered that he did inevitably learn how to catch, though a ball hitting a wumpbee's nest in the process certainly prepared him for Sig's future teachings on not being the fastest, but being faster than someone else. Thankfully, the swelling cut down after a week, and so did Daxter's teasing.

Skills were always easy to learn, most through _wise_ guidance or his (Daxter's) mistakes. There wasn't a reason to look up to others, except on occasion when there was no doubt about them being trustworthy. Unfortunately, that list seemed to get shorter as the years passed, while Jak learned to use others as they used him, expecting the worst in every interaction.

An hour of restlessness passed. Jak knew his mind was too active to sleep. Whenever his eyes closed, he frantically began putting together what could have happened, and what he thought would happen next. Not even the comforting hum of Daxter's nasally breathing was enough to calm him now.

There was one other thing that could.

The communicator was the only thing he kept on him now. It was cold, but that never meant anything. The red light was like a beacon of hope, praying to whatever gods there was that maybe, just maybe, it would turn green. It was a funny thought to Jak, praying that he'd sacrifice anything just to have that green light go off once again. He'd even give up the goatee, even if it grew on him more than anything else.

Bzeeeeeep. He brushed his arm against the orange fur as he held it to his ear. ' _Jak, is that you? It's Ashelin. I need you to come to Haven as soon as possible. We... we found your father. He's alive._ "

It was a possibility. Daxter would find it silly, another thing to tease him about, if he had found out about the vivid imagination and the array of voices. In the prison, it was the only thing keeping the hope of rescue alive, and reassurance didn't end now.

 _"Jak, it's Torn. Mind sharing why the late king of the city walked in demanding to know where his son is?"_

Torn's voice wasn't reassuring.

 _"You up, chili pepper? Got a signal blaring in from Haven. Let's get ready to roll."_

His Sig impression was bad enough to get him to send out a small chuckle. It was a meager ray of hope, these voices, but nothing was ludicrous when it was to calm nerves.

 _"Ludicrous?"_

Jak's eyes opened wide at the answer. He looked next to him, gazing at the sleeping ottsel. Dax?

 _"Nonsense. Many of the best actions are guided by such voices."_ The battle-hardened voice rang. " _They have guided me more than I can admit to count."  
_

 _"They guided you..?"_

 _"the day of your arrival in Spargus was your mother's. The moment I risked my life, your's._ "

" _You heard my voice?_ " Jak thought.

He was returned with a low laugh. " _Indeed, I did. As odd as it may seem, I was asking myself the very question you are now._ "

 _"The same question?"_

 _"Long ago, I would have found myself where you are... son,"_ The gruff voice became more silent, drifting away as it had years ago. _"Would you risk everything for those that did the same for you...?"_

The voice dissipated into the chirping of the desert crickbeetles.

Jak laid there, eyes open staring at the darkened ceiling. The voices came when there were no shackles. No reds drifting too and from his vision.

He shifted his head, inspecting the sleeping ottsel that found itself tightly wrapped around the exposed moved it slightly from its grasp, lightly wiggling Daxter off. The grip only became tighter with some mumbling as he replaced the arm with a wadded piece of bedding.

Gritting his teeth while inspecting the room, Jak rationalized that putting armor on would cause too much of a disturbance. He slipped silently off the bed next to his boots and morph gun which, thankfully, could be frisked without too much noise. The occasional glance reassured him that Daxter was sleeping, taking a mental note that he'd have to wait for tomorrow for his verbal execution for deciding to go alone.

As the door propped open, cold air swelled into his lungs.

He was really going through with this.

* * *

It was still dark when he reached Haven, giving an air of criminality as if he was escaping something more dangerous than an angry ottsel. Jak gave the driver of the air train an apologetic smirk as the morph gun returned to its holster. Not only did fear make shuttles go miraculously faster, it also convinced them to not log this trip.

Main Town's ruins were silent. Corpses of metal heads were gone and death bot remains were piled away, forming jutting corners. The rubble, however, was finally cleaned up by the Freedom League creating a clear passageway around the block, something Jak snorted at. Torn actually got them to do good for once.

Admiring his past work, he passed the debris of generators while riding to the catacomb's entrance. He didn't care where they came from, but was glad they were there. He enjoyed the time with Damas, and the realization of how befitting the Slam Dozer was of Damas: hard-headed and could survive anything.

The two seated zoomer was easily hidden behind the Slam Dozer's frame, though there was no particular reason for doing so. Sig hadn't scheduled its pick-up for re-purposing until after the Precursors left, and the new lord of Spargus did grant him the right to use it after its recovery, seeing as the Gila Stomper was enough. Jak hoped it wouldn't come to that, and that it would return to Damas' possession as soon as he found him.

He turned around the Slam Dozer, pausing as he finished.

Damas was gone.

Was Damas...?

He searched the vehicle, opening a small compartment on the top of the flipped over buggy. A large amulet on a chain swung as it became caught, its red beacon sprying out from the darkness. Of course Damas wouldn't need this. He already had one on him.

Fumbling with the amulet, Jak rehearsed a newly formed plan about finding Damas and using the war amulet to contact Sig as soon as possible, though them riding out on a zoomer was better sounding as it meant Damas was awake. It was now his last resort if the mission was successful, or if there was a bod-

From what he could see, there was no blood on the ground, nor on the Slam Dozer. Jak couldn't remember if there was any before on account of everything that happened. If there was, then there was none now.

Dingy moonlight illuminated drag marks, creating a clear lane throughout the rubble. Someone had tried to hide them by the small rocks and gravel thrown around the bleated, exposed earth from the cracked pavement. A poor attempt at covering them up, but he could discern that the tracks ended near a fallen spire several meters away.

Walking slowly, Jak searched for any sign that whatever was dragged was alive. Large, crimson drops had nearly dried on small bricks winding down his path to a large crevice that formed between fallen spires and crumbled wall sections.

More drops, but smaller and relatively fresh. Light shone on the red surface, indicating a lack of smearing. Jak's heart skipped a beat. It must have been human, as he had never known anything else in Haven to bleed red. That meant that...

Damas hadn't died in the crash.

Jak obliviously stepped towards the spire, recounting everything he would say to Damas and how he would explain everything to him. The world zoned out once there was nothing else to think of except that he would turn the corner, duck under the ruinous wall, and find Damas, alive. His father was alive.

Reality snapped back as a sudden, cacophonous clack shot out.

A beam of red pierced through an unarmored thigh. Adrenaline pumping, Jak tumbled, covering himself from attacks behind a short wall brim. Another shot cracked out, leaving a black singe on the pavement. They expected him to act on instinct.

He cursed to himself as he looked down at his open wound. Daxter wouldn't like seeing another stained pair of pants. Jak ripped off his scarf, tying it around the gash as blood began to seep from his deep wound. He should have refilled on white eco before leaving, but at least it wasn't too painful.

Another shot rang, trying to lure him out.

Reaching for his war amulet, he pulled it out from his bloodied pocket and glared down. He swore to himself again while grabbing at the section that had jammed down its center. It must have been thrown ajar during the blast as if this wasn't already going great, there went his last resort.

His eyes began to shuffle the area. They already shot left twice so that meant to go right? He couldn't run on account of his leg, and there was no doubt that he'd be plucked off immediately If he did. There was enough strength left in his other leg to jump. Jump and shoot, then continue the mission.

A fourth raucous shot fired much closer this time, ricocheting off a rock to the right of him. Jak pulled the morph gun from its straps, setting it to blaster right before a fifth shot pierced Haven's reticence.

Jak focused on the trigger, fingers grasping around it before jumping to meet whoever decided to interrupt. _Whoever_ …?

The staff laid in front of him, aimed. The crown of thorns that laid bare greeted him as the grip on the trigger loosened. "Damas…?"

There was no time before the sixth and final shot jarred in his ears. He fell with soft, exposed ground pulling everything close in its bitter embrace.

A shock tore through his body as he landed. Jak stared upwards, observing his murky surroundings from his dimly lit position. It was cold, and he must have forgotten to close the window. Daxter must have fallen out of bed with him and landed under his head, poor guy. Jak tried to move, but his body rationalized that this was a comfortable enough place to stay with seemingly no amount of arguing changing its mind to get up.

Apparently falling and ending up as a pillow would not wake Daxter, and Jak thought _he_ was a heavy sleeper. He couldn't speak out, only choking on his own words when trying to call for him to wake up. His muscles relaxed and began to sag. Maybe getting back to bed could wait after all. Daxter was so _warm_.

He shifted his head as he heard the quiet thumps in the distance. Footsteps? They sounded familiar, but whether it was an illusion was beyond him. These weren't the voices, and maybe Daxter would know what to do about hearing things. Jak gave a hushed attempt at a chuckle, noting how Daxter always could talk sense back into him. He could also use the help in getting back to bed.

Jak reached to his shoulder to get Daxter's attention. His hand lightly pressed down, settling on a wet, tousled surface. Must have had a nightmare with Daxter being the unwanted recipient of midnight perspiration. He'd treat him tomorrow with a trip to that island he loved for bathing.

A violent blur formed. Jak squinted, groggily studying the mess of color before him. Whites and grays mixed together, but that expression of horror didn't fit. It did look like him, but he shouldn't be here. They all said Damas was dead. He shouldn't be in his room. Jak didn't remember having anything to drink, but even then the voices weren't _this_ bad.

No, this was too real. Damas must have been here for that word, but what was it? An attempt at an open smile breached his face as he quaveringly reached up to Damas. Fingers twitched, slowly falling back down.

Too far away.

Daxter must have been awake now, moving quickly to catch it. Warmth spread out from his stomach, pooling at where that soft body was now. His chest tightened and dropped as if a weight crashed down upon it.

The face came close, exemplifying a crown of thorns and silver hair in the bright darkness. The large gun staff fell, crashing down inaudibly with its surroundings. Damas was close now, reachable even. There was something he needed to tell him.

Jak extended his arm to Damas, faltering against the armor-clad shoulder. The king stared, hastily mouthing words while pulling Jak's arm down. His hands were dyed a deep, discernible red.

Blood?

Damas returned to Jak's chest, feeling that sudden weight rush down upon him. Daxter was still resting behind his head then, and as reassuring as it was, he'd be alright, though maybe annoyed at being a headrest. Did that mean Damas was bleeding?

He examined his king, only to see nothing on him. Jak gave a breathless sigh, sucking back the air. He must have come for something else. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't make it out.

That _word_.

Sound stilled as that ringing faded to a delicate silence, pierced only by Jak's own croaking voice. Violet eyes fell as that wave of color overcame him, flustering around him as all senses diminished in chaotic freedom. A vivid blue light drowning in a deep sea of lavender, stifling out that word before it extinguished.

"...Father."

* * *

Author's Note- Chapter 1! Always fun to start a multi-chapter fanfiction with the main character dying. The duo is so sleep deprived that Jak starts to hear voices again, except one of them seems so real. I guess that's enough for the touch back on hallucinations he would have heard in the prison since they kept him sane with hope. But who knows! I certainly don't.

(This fan-fiction is multi-chapter and is an AU based on the events around the end of Jak III that I've wanted to do for a really long time. I don't know how long this will be, but I do have a specific direction and I guess what could be considered arcs, so until those are done I'll be typing.

There will also be the inclusion of several minor, but probably controversial, head-canons that you may not agree with. No, it isn't anything serious, just what I think could have happened based on plot holes I probably imagined during some fever dream. There are some upcoming ones, and I would just like to warn you now that they surround the DWP, nobility of Haven, uses of precursor tech, and uses of dark eco (if you know where I'm getting at based on the title *wink* no spoilers *wink*) If they come up and need explaining, they'll be in the Author's Note sections, so you can just skip over them if you're just here for the story.

Please note that some of you may have seen this before under a different name as I'm already a few chapters in, but I was given some really good advice and am completely rewriting parts and polishing it up. If you read them before, I hope you notice a difference. There will also maybe be chapter updates on my profile page?)

Disclaimer - I do not own any of these characters. All characters are owned by Sony Corporation and were created by NaughtyDog, LLC.


	2. Chapter 2 - The King's Domain

**\- Chapter 2 - The King's Domain -**

As grand as it was, the Precursor's abandonment called a ceremony attracted only those who wanted to find out _what_ they worshiped over anything else. Seeing your exalted gods truly abandon you was also an alluring reason, as was learning of their rumored smoke and mirrors trick.

Once seen as great beings with the awesome power that constructed worlds, was now reduced to what children would chase at a petting zoo. They weren't exactly gods, or relatively close to god material primarily due to their power being entirely imbued into their mechanics, and not themselves, but the myth was still there and as fluffy as ever. And just because it was a myth didn't mean they weren't all-powerful beings, as they were directly responsible for creating the planet using eco. Or, they at least hadn't said otherwise.

In a sense, they were a technologically superior race of fuzzy rodents with problems surrounding patience and empathy. The best occasion to show their utter benevolence and undying gratitude for those that worshiped them was to leave before their hero's recovery.

However, that didn't mean they were never in a giving mood. For some odd reason to them, Daxter believed they at least owed him for his heroic acts in guiding their chosen one, despite both of them serving their purpose. Though, when he uttered his unordinary request, they hadn't fully understood him past what sounded like sobbing and whimpering. The leader was a good translator of what he considered primitive languages, and roughly translated emotionally distressed ottsel to something along the lines of 'let Jak be alright.'

The Precursors could only note the primordial differences between themselves and the one that pleaded for something so… simple? They reasoned it must have been a side-effect of a human undergoing a forced transformation by dark eco. Daxter could have been turned back into a human or given those pants they saw he always wanted. If they were in more of a giving mood, even the power for the ottsel to grant his own wishes. Then again, this boy was not only this timeline's hero but what was called a best friend.

Being an, well, ottsel of his word, the leader caved in to get Daxter to stop getting his fur wet. He sighed, moved his platform towards the body that laid out before him and observed every wound tentatively. After several minutes of quiet investigation, his staff had begun to radiate a pure, white light that cascaded over the body. Unfortunately, only Jak's breathing returned to low, murmured stifles instead of having some stunning recovery that Precursors were fabled of being able to invoke. Their leaving was as fastidious as any ancient engraving could have professed.

Daxter wished more was done, but after remembering the Precursors' attitude about why _they_ should help after they were found out in the center of the planet was still fresh in his mind.

It didn't help that Jak looked worse than his cardboard victims at the shooting range. Daxter could barely recognize him through all that blood when they saw that limp body Damas was carrying. It was a blur, only being able to remember Damas muttering something under his breath as he nudged the cold body. Sig's skewed words to his talk-box drowned out the whimpered pleas for Jak to get up as Damas pressed down to stop the blood from flowing out.

Jak wasn't responding then and wasn't now.

Even now, Daxter could only helplessly look down at the pale face. Jak really thought he could sneak off to search for Damas while he slept as if he didn't know. His ottsel instincts told him that Jak would somehow put his life in danger, or that might have just been common sense. Telling him flat-out that nothing was going to stop him from coming with would have prevented this, and then he wouldn't be…

It didn't matter now. All Jak needed were some eco treatments, rest, and tender, loving care from his favorite mammal. Furry mammal. A couple of well-aimed shots couldn't take him out, even if his stomach was torn open, or that his shoulder was essentially nonexistent, or that his thigh now had a gap. And sure, his head may have been busted open, but he was breathing.

Breathing was good. Breathing meant _alive_.

Positive thinking was not a prescribed medicine for healing wounds, especially not of these proportions. Damas' marksmanship was never put into question, though there was even less contending against it now. These shots were meant to weaken and kill, taking out anyone caught off guard. It included two Dark Makers who met their fate beforehand after backing a wastelander into a corner. Unfortunately for them, and Jak, he knew where to hit and when to shoot.

Eco treatments would begin the next day as Spargus had used up their current stores in healing the wounded after the sudden assault by the Dark Makers. No one had expected they would need more so soon, and Seem's monks were called to be a day from Spargus with their latest shipment.

Samos arrived earlier for the ceremony than expected under the reuse of attempting to probe knowledge out of the Precursors, rather than admit to caring about Jak enough to come in such a jaded state. After his spurious bout of arguing against why he should help, he gave into wastelander demeanor and empty threats of not seeing what he came for.

Too weak to channel directly into Jak, Samos settled on conjuring a large cloud of eco, precipitating it down into a viscous, green gel before abruptly collapsing. His rattling how even a sage had their limits, and how lucky they were about his break from persistently healing Haven's wounded went ignored, though his pensive smile towards Jak before leaving was not.

Primarily due to its volatile nature if handled improperly, eco manipulation was solely a channeler's job. If handled properly in small amounts, green eco was safe enough to stop bleeding, cure infections, and increase recovery time. The chance of mutation or malformation through healing was not the problem. An afterthought, really.

The only problem was that Jak would not be channeling it into himself, having it applied directly to his wounds instead. Daxter was the only one he trusted enough to see what from Praxis' experiments were safely tucked away, especially since those were meant to stay concealed. Secrets heavily protected to a fault. Had he not been what was considered a fully-fledged sage, Samos would be reduced to little more than sawdust when Jak lashed out to protect it after taking a stray bullet.

Daxter didn't know if Jak would have trusted Damas with such a topic, nor anyone who would be called on to help in the healing process. Seem came, being the leader of the Precursor Monks and avid healer, but if Jak woke up to several pounds of makeup staring him down as if he were being dissected then nothing could save them.

Unfortunately, by the time Daxter piped in about how nothing they would see was going to leave this room, Damas was already gently picking up Jak while Seem hastily cut the tunic and pants to check the wounds' severity. There was nothing particularly threatening about a two-foot tall ottsel whose shadow was currently being picked up like a baby, but that didn't mean there wasn't a good reason for the request.

As fabric shed before them laid an open field of pain. Damas was not taken aback at first, with open gashes overshadowed by a series of slashes from marauders, and jagged patterns deriving from battles with metal heads being a common sight in the wasteland. They were, more or less, a sign of courage and honor to have fought in the eyes of a wastelander.

That sense of honor never lasted.

The ottsel turned to Seem, who was now acting as if they were reading a newly discovered tome on necromancy, before glancing towards Damas. There was now a vexed expression on the king's face as he stared down thin marks that ran along the body. He knew well enough that they were too intricate to have been done by any metalhead or marauder. Too delicate to have been done while the body was moving.

Attempting to think positively, Daxter had joked to himself that they would all agree to not talk about what they saw now. And with the outfit, which was redder than a lurker-rat and holey-er than a fisherman's net, they wouldn't be missed either, something his nostrils would thank Jak for later. He had even called Tess to bring in a new pair of clothes from the Naughty Ottsel's storage room. She said she would be there before any official ceremonial processions with something a little extra. Daxter hoped those processions weren't a funeral.

Returning to the bright side of thinking, Jak's injuries were taking nicely to the salve. Large gashes no longer writhed with blood, while the scorch marks now laid in the tan skin. Seem brought out fresh cloth form the palace's infirmary, wrapping up each individual wound with more care than Daxter had thought possible from the monk. Damas even cradled him slowly from the rickety recuperation bed over to his own after he made sure each wound was dressed tightly.

It was odd to Daxter that Jak, and not the one who came back as if several tons of metal hadn't landed on him, was the only one being catered to. There was no attention being paid to the king that was proclaimed dead hours before. Even as his occasional glances at Damas went unnoticed, there just weren't any indications that the crash happened, other than torn and bloodied clothing that were still worn. Then again, most of the blood probably came from Jak.

He never took Damas for a soft man, and even now he didn't. None of this would explain how he survived or why no one was paying attention to that little fact, nor why he was acting as he was. No other wastelander, even the king himself, would have received such a royal treatment. If any saw him babying Jak like this, they would have questioned if his head was hit in the landing too, but they probably liked the idea of being alive in Spargus too much to say anything.

Damas became very protective of Jak, waving off even Daxter as he tried to lay next to him. That didn't mean being Jak's best friend didn't have any benefits as he allowed him the pleasure of staying. The complimentary stone chair with no blanket or pillow to sleep on was also a convenience he supposed.

It wasn't all too bad as no other was as fortunate. Damas closed the palace to all visitors, but that may have been for the best. Jak wouldn't wake up only to find that everyone knew of what he tried so hard to hide. His current situation also may have influenced Damas' decision, who had no wish in putting his best warrior in such an indecent position for the public eye.

Even then, the king's face turned pensive as time grew on. It grew a tone different from his usual apathetic and unmoving appearance. And yet, Damas never broke his gaze, being too caught up in his own thoughts to notice much else other than Jak's steady chest rhythms. There was a single instance when it broke, blue eyes contacting his, though they returned to the face in front of him once he realized those were not the ones he longed to see.

Daxter never noticed before, but Damas spoke with his eyes. They reassured him, calming him down as Jak had before rushing into battle, letting him know that they wouldn't let anything happen to him. Now, it told him they wouldn't let Jak die, and Daxter believed them.

He believed that violet, distinguished by pain, then too. When that hue surged with anger for what they had done and clashed with fear of what would happen because of them. They expressed such a look of horror and regret, something he knew all too well.

Damas looked as if the world was swept from under him.

* * *

Daxter yawned as he was awoken from a quick nap by a calloused hand softly rubbing behind his ear, only to abruptly fall after rolling over. That same hand grabbed him before making it too close to the ground, surprisingly placing him on a soft, white sheet and not the stone chair. His body relaxed back, melting into the comfort now that something rock hard wasn't supporting his back.

"Hey, Dax."

 _Jak._

That weak voice caused Daxter to immediately perk up, eye's going wide at the blonde, now awake and looking at him with a smirk.

A smirk.

Any tranquility that could be scavenged from that moment was cut short by a shrill voice.

"What were you _thinking_!? Struttin' through a war zone in the middle of the night like yer hot stuff without your gear and, most importantly, _me_!? You could'a died and the first thing the blonde wonder thought to do was, you ask? Say 'hey Dax' and end it with a smirk! Not a 'sorry for making you worry' or 'sorry I almost died' but a _smirk_!"

Jak unknowingly risked his life on countless occasions. He gave excuses as to why it happened time and time again, even if it made Daxter furious. Saving the world was a pretty solid excuse for risking your life, especially as it was to make up for turning a certain someone into an ottsel but saving the world a second and third time? Well, he couldn't say those weren't plausible excuses either, and Jak risking his life to save him was a touchy subject. But the world was saved!

It was fine and dandy in thought, finding your father and saving him from certain death, and justified on multiple levels on both paper and anything else, but there just shouldn't have been any chance of his life being at risk in the process.

Jak could only respond to the emanating anger, whose paws were fervently pushed on their owner's hips in contempt, by rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to gesture apologetically but only came to a small wince, followed by a feel-up of clean bandages around his hair. No blood.

Daxter tilted his head forward, rubbing his temples before badgering on. "You weren't. Once again. Too thick-headed to think about me, let alone yourself."

Quietly sighing, the ottsel knew that it was, for all intents and purposes unbeknownst to him, against the rules of the universe for Jak to not be put in danger. He also knew that there was no chance of bringing along an extra two-foot tall orange target when those said rules applied. Its just there wasn't anything dangerous about going back to Haven, save for an angry council demanding to be reinstated, the constantly-active bloodhunt by said council for Jak, and nobles rising. But even then the risk of a stray metal head was null. The Freedom League's reports weren't the best or accurate, but they never detailed Damas being alive and acting like that, nor did they signal out any imminent danger.

Green eyebrows furrowed in thought, reasoning to himself that Daxter always liked to be right. Sagging back into the pillow, Jak muttered a 'yeah.' Even lifting his head was proving difficult, and the screaming ottsel was not helping soothe his exhaustion.

"Yer damn right you weren't!" Daxter shot at the weak response. "You had me worried, and Precursors forbid I relax without your heroic-self running right into gunfire like a kid in a candy store. I might do enough worrying for both of us, but that doesn't mean you can go around raising my blood pressure way past safe ottsel levels!"

Being labeled as a pet or a sidekick, as humbling as it was to let Jak take all the credit, let Daxter make sure they both came back in one piece. He understood that there were times when he was a weakness, and Jak couldn't always protect him, which was why he was left behind on multiple occasions. Truthfully, it made sense, but the blonde going alone without him didn't scare him, his friend not returning did.

There were always those times when Jak would come back late from missions, too tired to speak or even change. All he could do was watch as the mass under those bloodied clothes fell lifelessly to the bed with a thump, soon relaxed enough to let his morph gun slip from his grasp.

Those nights were always quiet. Jak's entire self was too conked out to even materialize nightmares that would scare him from his rest. The morning had that covered, whisking small rays of sunlight over him as he awoke to his own coughing and retching up of red as he saw the dull crimson adhered ubiquitously over his skin and clothes.

Daxter never cared that he was always tired on missions after and was moderately glad that Jak never thought anything of waking up in clean clothes. Had he, telling the truth in that instance would have been less embarrassing and would have less of a chance in becoming a bar story if Jak ever found a reason to steal the spotlight. Saying that he didn't want his bed to get stained wasn't a good enough excuse to explain waking up half-dressed with an ottsel trying to take your pants off. Especially since the bed was already browned with dry blood and various other bodily fluids that would really need a medical textbook to describe accurately.

"Y'know, we're the Demolition Duo _. Duo._ _You_ are not the Demolition Solo who leaves his best friend behind to worry his tail off," scolded Daxter. He continued his best at maintaining his air of anger. "Now, I ain't the strongest or the smartest, but I'm the best you got. And you can bet your sweet locks that yer not leaving me 'till I get changed back."

Jak positioned his head away from the ottsel, focusing on scouting where he was rather than listen to the beratement. Either way, he'd already heard this spiel after being forty-pounds lighter when boarding the air train, with the ottsel high-tailing them as fast as his feet could carry him.

Stone walls towered over, etched with engravings that reminded him of the halls in Spargus palace, but this wasn't something he'd seen during his viewing with Sig. Despite the drab scenery, the room was lush with foliage that grew from the outlaid soil. Large cacti and desert trees grew wild and gave some slight shade from sunlight peaking from the immense arching window.

Scarlet and azure fluttered above him, patiently and mutely observing every glance slighted towards them. Eyes above narrow crests of bright tuft inadvertently left the one staring, resting now on a single entity. Jak entertained himself to his thoughts, chuckling in response to the thought of what that old birdwatcher would have done if she saw this until he saw what their attention turned to.

"Oh, so ya think stressing me out is funny?"

Even with the remark, Jak's attention hadn't returned to Daxter, who was now indignantly walking towards him with teeth bared.

"Remember our rules?" Daxter asked. The fit of rage silenced the stone chair scooting back from metal-tipped boots. He whipped out his finger, pulling it down we the other as he counted, "step one: stay alive."

The ottsel turned around, obliviously muttering something under his breath about how Jak had 'barely managed to stick with that.' The tail whipped as it returned, knocking into Jak's tense chin, its owner still fuming to notice the sound of a staff meeting the hard floor.

"And step two: think about not doing-" Daxter looked at Jak, now noticing his apparent lack of audience before giving off a muffled snap. "Are you even paying attention?"

"If I wanted _you_ to reprimand him for his actions, then _I_ wouldn't be here." The gravelly voice boomed, startling both Jak and the birds even though they were both participants in watching the king's every move. Damas had spoken for the first time in days, causing the room to fall silent. Well, particularly silent as Daxter just didn't know when to shut it.

"You're one to talk, Sandman," Daxter scowled. "You filled my buddy here full-a holes, and now yer gonna scold him for _saving_ you?"

Damas stood up, looming over the small-statured figure that talked against him. It may have looked like a rat, but it had the courage that rivaled any wastelanders, though misguided courage pressed against the one who allowed him to live with Jak.

"Leave now or I will have you forced out," Damas exclaimed. His grip on the gun staff tightened simultaneously as his back straightened.

The ottsel looked at Damas, then turned to Jak. All he needed to see was that quick nod to know that his visit was over.

"Then again, what am I saying?" He gulped, "I'll just leave you two for father-son bonding time."

 _"...Father."_

Daxter looked around sheepishly. Damas' eyes widened before hardening as if it hadn't bothered him. Jak gave him a sharp look before turning his head away, giving the air of how this was not a good time to discuss it.

Jak hadn't much time to think about explaining everything to Damas, considering his current situation, but now was a _great_ time. Telling your father that you were his long-lost son was hard enough, especially with the age difference, time rifts, and timelines to help him along the way. Telling your father the same thing, while indecent and in his bed with the current inability to leave because he shot you while you were on your way to not only save him but tell him that you were his son? Worse. Hell, it made the fight with Metal Kor a walk in the park in comparison.

"Uh, yer on your own big guy."

Damas watched as the orange "rat" jump off the bed, scurrying quite fast to the scuffed door curtain to leave. It peaked in, apologetically looking at Jak, then hurriedly squeezing back under the curtains once he caught a cold gaze.

They were alone now if that ottsel knew what was best for him.

Placing his gun staff down, Damas regained his posture. He paced over to a large-mouthed urn affront a light blue banner, using all his willpower to control himself. He grabbed at the false bottom inside, pulling out a small stone ewer. Pausing for a moment, he looked at the disgruntled boy in his bed before returning to the jar, wafting the sparkling essence upwards with every shifting step back to the bed.

"To have survived worse than the desert could offer... you are far braver than I," Damas said weakly. He glanced at the deep scars around Jak's wrists as his free hand tightened to a fist. It had seemed he survived everything this world had thrown at him.

The hand soon disappeared. A wave of blonde hair positioned itself towards him as if it were an act of a dissenting child.

"Someone would have come looking for me. It was rash to not assume that..." Damas stopped, returning to his seat only to law his head low in contrition. "I had no intention of hurting you, Jak."

Blonde hair pulled back into the pillow as blue eyes stared blankly ahead. Any mental preparation before hadn't helped him then, and now that Damas started the conversation revealing his past did not help either. How long could they avoid the rhinophant in the room?

"It is not common that I must, but I… apologize for my actions," Damas admitted.

The blonde did not stir, prompting the conversation to stay one-sided.

The king sighed deeply as he swirled the milky contents of the jug with a cuff. He promised himself that he wouldn't discuss what Jak said before the right time, but that never meant other ways of sleuthing were forbidden. He especially knew that it was not uncommon for a child without a father to grow up having a figure to teach them. But, even then, if what the reports said were true then Mar's lineage was not the only one to channel all forms of eco.

Another cuff as the jug splashed innocently, sending a white, flickering aura from within. If this plan failed, then he would have a short, angry wastelander in his bed.

"I have heard that you are a channeler. Not just any, but one that can channel _any_ eco," Damas queried, moving from his seat to place the jug next to his bed. He readied his movements in his head before starting again. "Throughout history, not many were gifted such prowess. That someone could handle such a feat, it is quite impressive."

He went for it. White sheets flew outwards as Damas pushed down on Jak's good shoulder, catching the teen unaware. The crash may have weakened him, but that did not necessarily mean there was not enough left in him to hold down someone in worse shape than he.

"What are you-?"

"Lie still."

Damas began to tear at bandages, furthering Jak's current dismay while pushing down harder as they fought. The body was soon thrown into a small spasm as the chilling contents poured out, pooling with dried blood to form a rusty hue. He would have to apologize later. Not only for this incursion but for testing what Jak could really do.

Glowing light burst from the center gash as Damas used what minor channeling ability he had. Skin began to reel back, twisting and splitting to open the wound to the light eco. Jak stared on, from what only the king could tell was from being utterly awestruck to recognize the intense pain as flesh contorted and clashed. Those blue eyes watched on as if enticed the entwining skin that would pull taught and loosen back up, forming a copper tint to the smooth tan.

That was all he could do. Damas fell backward, breathing heavily. Jak began to prod at his stomach curiously. There were no scars, which had taken all of Damas' concentrating to make sure not one more laid its mark. Those blue eyes turned wide as they jumped to the exhausted man in the chair, who barely conjured enough strength to give off a weak smile.

"You're a channeler?"

Damas nodded wearily, dropping the ewer with a clank. It must have been a strenuous realization for Jak, finally knowing that he was not the only one who could channel light eco. As much of a curiosity it was to know how Jak could channel light eco, Damas was too tired to ask. There was but one thing that had come to mind. "I... take that we are... even now?" He huffed, taking in a gasp of air with every passing moment. "A secret for... a secret, if you will..."

Stunned, Jak repeated, "you're a channeler."

"It is something only a few know... Though, I was never as gifted as the others..." Catching his breath, Damas pulled his head up to smirk at Jak. The others now included more than just his family. He was never a skilled channeler, but he was one nonetheless. Even though it seemed impossible to channel anything other than light eco past the most simple manipulations, it would still be a disgrace to his lineage has he not been able to control something as simple as that. It was just that, he could not remember anyone else who could channel with ease. Other than Mar.

His Mar.

He chuckled to himself at how thankful he was that "father like son" could be proved wrong. His own son was more gifted than him, possibly being able to surpass even the mythical sages in talent. Even besting his own father and family, and perhaps his channeling ability would be like that of Jak's.

The rare chuckle slipped into a half-smile as Damas thought about his Mar. At age three, he was able to use green eco to heal small cuts from playing and even fixed the wing of an injured bird that had knocked itself against the palace window during a storm. Eventually, the other types became that of second nature, where Mar caused a power shortage during his lessons with blue, and if it had not been prohibited near him after such an event, red and yellow could have broken walls or set fire to a palace.

All he could remember was that young, green-haired boy laughing as the air around him glowed with small specks of white light.

It was the last time he saw those blue eyes filled with such awe.

"Damas, I—" Jak began, only to pause as his heart dropped with the raising of a calloused hand.

It was unlike him to dawdle on the past. It was shaping up to be an odd week, with his strongest warrior once wounded in his bed, and many revelations that even the king himself was not ready to confront. "Rest. Once you are able-bodied you will be placed on a mission with Sig." Damas pulled himself up, using his gun staff as a support. It would be for the best if his thinking was in solitude, for not only he had some to do it seemed. "Do not worry, Jak. I will let your pet know that you are doing well."

"He's not a pet."

"Hmm?" Damas turned, with Jak meeting his gaze with a contented smirk. Maybe it wasn't the last time he saw that wondrous blue.

"He's not a pet, and his name is Daxter."

* * *

The old talk box was well out of date, though it's now worn body and frizzy interface made for royalty long ago. Sig had snuck it out of the city with some of his belongings after his banishment, and that was just the man he would need to call. Damas fiddled with the frequency controls, tuning it to his personal line.

Threats were not simply gone now that the world was not in peril. There were always marauders preparing to attack, or metal heads that managed to survive. Jak would recover soon, and who was he to deny his best warrior the thrill of battle, taking the chance of dying for honor and glory?

A father who could bear to lose no more.

The small machine's screen began to flash, stabilizing into a grainy picture.

"Your lordship?"

"Sig, I need you to find an isolated marauder camp. Our foraging groups have sent reports of small raids. I expect you to go with Jak, to ensure his recovery."

"Saying it like you weren't expecting me to check up on my cherries?"

Damas slightly relaxed, knowing this would be an easy enough mission. There never were any attacks on foraging groups as of late, but that never meant marauders weren't strategizing an attack. Sig would bring Jak back to him safely.

He cleared his throat loudly once he saw Sig smirk at the request, even if it was too granulated to make out. Being at his side long before he became Spargus' ruler, Sig could easily tell when he cared for something or someone. It was made even more obvious when he asked, or told, Sig to leave the palace after Jak settled down, guarding the door against any prying eyes who thought they just saw their deceased king walk in with the personification of living death in his arms.

Everyone had ambled to the Precursor ceremony with the exclusion of one of their own, a supposedly dead king, and the missing resident renegade and his orange shoulder pad. Sig had missed it as well, but no one questioned the inconspicuous wastelander standing in front of the large metal door with a bright, orange symbol printed on it. He had finally gotten around to cleaning his peacemaker as well, as the only thing that stirred were kangarats fighting over what he assumed was a cacti shell. This made the job easier than stealing grass from a sleeping yakow, and as boring as checking for inaccuracies in his 27th counting of ammo packs.

That did not mean it was uneventful.

Daxter had been thrown out after a while, but that had not been shocking. It was common knowledge that he could control himself if Jak was unconscious, as that was the only thing keeping him alive after running his mouth off to the wrong person. That must have meant that Jak was awake, and Daxter ran his mouth off on Damas.

Pacing back and forth while kicking the occasional rock, orange feet troubledly pattered against the stone. Everyone knew Jak was going to be fine, and Daxter hadn't done this the last time when a marauder got in a lucky hit. Maybe it was because Jak wasn't bedridden then, or that Daxter was there with him through it.

Sig shrugged it off. Jak was the only one who would ever outright understand Daxter, and asking would only get him an earful, something he wasn't interested in for killing time. Unfortunately, he couldn't ignore the thumb twiddling and rock kicking for long, turning on his communicator to Damas' feed to ask about Jak. Daxter's ears perked up as it happened, though all he saw was Damas' mug as the communicator shut off after being told to that it would be best for Jak to rest.

Another rock met the small foot, this time kicked at a crowd of kangarats who scurried off to who knows where. The communicator soon found itself in Daxter's hands, much to the appreciation of the kangarats. Daxter fumbled with it, tuning it to seemingly random frequencies until a sharp "Daxxie!" came on.

Sig never knew what that blonde saw in him, but he did make her a lot cheerier than she had been before at the Hip Hog. They talked for what seemed like hours, babbling on about how Jak was strong enough to survive anything, and that nothing bad was going to happen. It was easy to tell she was trying to calm down the ottsel, or her soothing voice was quieter as she was apparently still at the ceremony.

Tess announced that the contents of Jak's 'package' were still hot, much to Daxter's delight, who was no longer scared out of his wits. The conversation lasted longer, with Daxter asking whether she brought the 'supplies' that he requested as well.

Code names were different from nicknames. Sig never was a fan of them, especially with someone always wanting to be called 'Black Mamba.' Either way, they were easy to crack after a while, and the gushing blonde made it oh so easy when she said she prepared 'Jak's favorite.' Now, it wasn't revealed what Jak's favorite was, but after knowing Tess' cooking abilities he could gess.

Unfortunately, their conversation on the telecommunicator was not as gushy as it was in person.

Tess' bubbly personality radiated from the crowd of wastelanders who were now returning from seeing the Precursors leave. That was about the only thing setting her apart from wastelanders, save from the smile she used to greet him. Sig had remembered the last time a drunk groped her and had Krew been there to see if he would have conscripted her on his more dangerous missions.

Reaching into her bag, Tess pulled out a large box that she handed to Sig, saying how he had gone with her little snookums and decided that he deserved a little treat. He always hated Haven food, but her cooking was a definite exception, and standing all day did make him hungry.

A pristine pair of clothes was later dropped on Daxter right after Tess latched a satchel to his back. He waddled over, giving them to Sig before going back and giving her a small goodbye kiss.

Resolving Sig's code name situation before, Tess had recounted how cute it was that Daxter somehow found an exact match to Jak's last outfit, and how he wanted her to make a special yakow burger. It was hard to tell if an ottsel blushed with all that fur, but there was no mistaking it.

The palace door opened minutes after Tess left, with Sig's communicator going off immediately after. Daxter waddled in, looking as if those few steps towards the platform were a long trek. Damas must have changed his mind on letting visitors in, but the doors had slammed shut afterward. The communicator's beeping continued until it formed a gravelly voice.

"I will have Jak sent to you when he is fully recovered." Damas ended, watching as Sig nodded, communicator turning off. The small box returned to its cover as its owner sighed deeply.

 _Father._

What did Jak mean by it?

Seem's monks could find no information on Jak's past for there were no leads. Even Haven came empty-handed, showing there was more interest in what he could do than in where he came from. All he had known came from that moncaw, who only revealed what anyone who stood in a room with Jak would see.

Jak had ties with those in Haven that he had not asked, but there were none in Spargus as wastelanders were not avid on the past. There was that Shadow, who first communicated with him in an effort for gaining aid in overthrowing Praxis.

There was no point in asking for their help now. Years ago, they may have worked with him to restructure Haven, but not now. Knowing Jak disclosed being an Underground member, and that the baron's daughter took the throne, they would have no interest in telling him. If Jak was of royal lineage, then it threatened the Praxis dynasty, and they might as well tell him that Spargus' king was prying into his past.

Asking Jak himself would prove troublesome. He knew too much already and, as trust did not come easy with him, any attempt at forcing information out would lead to unnecessary consequences.

Sig pulled nothing from his search for his son, but he could be trusted. If Damas asked him to take his place in asking Jak, then there was, without doubt, he'd be placing the burly wastelander between two stools.

There was another that could be trusted. To a fault. The one that let information about Jak being a channeler slip. That pet of his. No, Jak told him that it wasn't a pet, as well as its name.

Daxter.

* * *

Author's Note: You've made it to chapter two, which means you're at least partly interested in my story. Thanks for making it this far!

I'll try not to do spoilers in my author's notes, but I will say that each chapter should come out every two to three weeks unless something happens. Chapter three is partially rewritten, and four is in the works so stay tuned?


	3. Chapter 3 - Perception

**\- Chapter 3 - Perception -**

Daxter waddled under heavy curtains, making sure to not drop anything. You wouldn't think that a regular pair of clothes were heavy, but they were if you were only two feet tall with arms thinner than Krew's legs. Jak did the heavy lifting anyway, but at least the bag wasn't heavy or said heavy lifter would need to turn chiropractor for a day.

His upper body strength at least allowed him to heave clothing upwards without breaking too much of a sweat. He indelicately placed down the satchel, loosening the ties enough to sneak a peek before retying. Tess was extra generous with portions this time and even packed him a little snack as well.

Blue eyes beadily peered up on the bed. From the looks of it, Jak was sleeping or resting his eyes. Only someone who had previously gone on an ignored rant could ruin such a peaceful scene.

"Just 'cause the prince has arrived to save the day doesn't mean I'll wake the sleeping beaut' with a kiss. Now get up, you've been sleeping all week."

Jak moved his head slightly, eyes closing after recognizing his visitor. He did get mad, but never especially mad at Daxter. Annoyed? Yes. Mad? That wasn't his forte when dealing with him. He could never stay angry enough for long no matter the situation.

"Going to stay mad at me for a slip-up, huh?" A silent treatment was enough to prove Daxter was right.

The blonde couldn't last that way for long. The longest he had ignored his best friend was a few hours after being given an earful for blindly jumping into the sea, landing a foot away from a large rock. Much of which consisted of pretending Daxter wasn't there.

There definitely was one way to get him to talk.

Daxter climbed up before heaving the satchel upwards. He reached down, untying the rough strings and poured out its contents. Two silvery, metal boxes, with one sizeably larger than the other. He opened his first, revealing a tightly packed sandwich divided into fourths. Egg salad sandwiches always were his favorite.

A devilish grin formed as he saw Jak's attention shift from the small box to the larger one. Food always was an incentive for getting Jak to talk, and there was no doubt that he hadn't eaten for the past few days.

Jak's arms crossed, angling his head away from the ottsel watching him while taking off the metal lid. That didn't last long once his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of grilled yakow. Tess knew how to cook a mean burger, and it was just what Daxter needed to get Jak out of his funk.

"Mm-mm! Tess' famous yakow burger made fresh. Still _hot_ too. If yer not _hungry_ , maybe this'll bring back memories for King o' the Sandhill out back." Daxter noted the refusal while jumping off the bed, metal box in hand. Jak ignored his footsteps, but his stomach didn't, rumbling in defiance to its owner's action.

Hook…

"Wonder if he's ever had fries like _these_ before? You won't mind if I give him a _bite_ , right?" Another rumble.

Line…

"I can even hear his stomach from here! Guess our king does get _hungry_ , huh Jak? You'd know nothing about being hungry, right?" Daxter grinned.

And…

"Didn't say that."

…sinker.

"Didn't say _what_ now?" Daxter turned around, a smug smirk painted on his face. The blonde stared down, eyes determinately fixed on the metal box. A dry gulp, followed by an arm pulled tight to stop the rumbling, told him that Jak was starving.

Jak was an easy nut to crack.

"That I wasn't hungry." Jak's voice was rough and dry.

Daxter rolled his eyes. Damas may have been a king, but he really needed to take some Jak lessons if he was going to be a father again. There were a lot of cues that showed whether Jak was hungry or thirsty, but he was probably the only one able to catch slight ones. Two days unconscious would irk anyone's stomach into having a massive appetite.

"So, ya _are_ hungry? Thought you weren't with that 'silent treatment' get up." Daxter forgave, returning to the bed. He placed the metal container next to Jak while sliding the smaller one to himself. Damas didn't need to know they'd be eating on his bed, though the thought of a monk hand-feeding him grapes had come to mind to quell an argument against it.

Much to Daxter's amazement, Jak was fully able to walk to the water urn near the door, who grabbed the dipper, filling and drinking from it multiple times before returning. He followed the movements, glancing from his shoulder to stomach and then thigh. All healed. That salve must have really worked.

"I'm never one to turn down a late-night dinner show, but, uh, y'know I got ya some new threads, right?" Daxter smirked, pointing down at Jak's lower extremities.

Jak snorted, going over to pull his clothes off the bed. They weren't the same as what he had on before. It was hard to tell, but this tunic was a darker shade of blue. Snug fit, just like his last one though. Pants were loose at the knees for better movement. They fit exactly like the last pair. There was even a scarf, but without the smell of blood.

There were more important matters at hand than critiquing clothes, like food. The faster he got dressed, the faster he could get to eating.

Jak was never a picky eater like Daxter, but that did not mean he didn't have favorites. Daxter, and evidently Tess, knew that he couldn't resist a yakow burger. Haven never offered anything food-wise that he thoroughly enjoyed, but foods like this were more symbolic than anything. After all, it was the first thing he'd ever eaten that tasted like food after Daxter rescued him.

They did taste delicious too.

Daxter watched on as vegetable fries dwindled from the box, seeing their devourer take an occasional breath before biting down into the burger. That meal wouldn't last long, and Jak was soon going to go mute in protest of his earlier mention of something that should be dealt with later. Much later.

"So, uh… what's the plan?"

Jak chewed slower, raising an eyebrow at the question.

"Y'know, 'Damas, I'm your son.'" Daxter finished, waiting for an answer.

Jak swallowed hard. Wasn't telling Damas the truth enough? They had proof that even he couldn't deny: the seal of Mar, completing the trials of manhood, and they could ask the Precursors about his lineage. Everything would work out in the end.

"It's hard to convince Damas of anything, especially that yer his long-lost son from the past, but now in the future 'cause you were sent back and forth to save the world," Daxter said, attempting to use hand movements to relate the time loop they had gone through, but only ended up confusing himself and Jak more than thinking about a plan should

"We have the seal back at the cot, don't we?" Jak pointed, using a pepickle slice that fell from his mouth before placing it back on his burger and taking a finishing bite. Mar's seal should be enough. Only heirs of Mar had and could use it.

"You mean the seal we got from _Brutter_? A _lurker?_ If having it proved you were an heir of Mar, then Damas has some explaining to do about bestiality in the family." Jak would have laughed if Daxter wasn't right. Damas would have thought that he'd stolen it, or somehow found it on a mission. How did Brutter even get both of those pieces anyways? "Or the one Ashelin gave you back? Who, y'know, is part of a group who Damas' ain't too happy to hear about."

"Tests of Manhood back at the Tomb? Only Mar's heirs can-"

" _Start_ it, which _you_ didn't. Well, you now didn't. Past you did. Or future you?" Daxter said, shaking his head to get off the time travel topic. "If punching stuff makes a man, then you gotta talk to his kingliness about what poor bloke - or wall - made him a man."

Another solid point. Jak sighed, remembering that even Samos's younger self-proclaimed that he wouldn't have been accepted into the tomb. Praxis got in exactly after too, but by breaking down the stone door. It also didn't help that everyone who saw what happened was either dead or not in this timeline.

"But the Precursors—"

"Gone. Left while you were enjoying your impromptu beauty sleep thanks to Mr. Trigger Finger out there."

Daxter rubbed his temples. Jak wasn't the conscious thinker out of the duo, hence rushing in and risking his life, but this? Quick thinking, yes, but rushing in to find your father without an actual plan other than saying 'hey, I'm your son' and just live life all hunky dory like Damas would accept it was impulsive thinking. Daxter couldn't blame him. Anything good seldom came in Jak's life, and when it did he held on with dear life. That was known all too well after the displacement of his spine for over a week after the prison break. Jak apparently didn't know his own strength, and said he couldn't hear the weak 'Jak stop' or ribs cracking while Daxter's chest collapsed in a death grip called a 'hug.'

There was one incident when Samos said Jak was much like his father when he first went to Misty Island. He didn't have the ability to ask about it then, but there was no doubt that he understood what the sage meant by that now. However, if Jak could talk then, Samos would have told him they died doing something they should not have been doing. Like going to said island.

Jak's expression sank as he realized his mistake in believing that something good would voluntarily happen in his life. What would happen if Damas didn't believe in his intentions? Sig was nearly exiled for not fighting in the arena, despite staying loyal to Damas for years. What did that mean for him? That thought sent a visible shiver down his spine. Spargus had a monumental impact on his life, let alone mood, and it was something he couldn't bear to lose

"No. No. No! Look here, there is _no_ way that he'll make you leave. Don't think for a moment he would, or that we'd let him. He'll have to get through Orange Lightning himself first!" Daxter piped, standing up proudly, fists on his hips despite the bit of egg salad on his chin.

Ears began to rise as Jak hopes dredged from the mire. Damas couldn't throw out his best wastelander, and even the quietest citizen would double take at the decision against a respected wastelander of his caliber. Damas was even allowed him to use his palace bed, even revealing his secret channeling ability. Perks of being on top?

Jak gave a slight smile, ruffling Daxter's fur with his cleaner hand. If there was one thing Daxter was good at, it was brightening his mood regardless of how inextricable it may seem. Even the thought of Daxter trying to fisticuff Damas into not exiling him for claiming something impossible was funny, though the outcome was not.

No, he couldn't think about getting exiled. Daxter said he wouldn't, so he wouldn't.

Beeping, then a clack followed by a sharp blip sputtered from the satchel.

"Hellos!"

Both teens gave a confused glance towards each other, then at Daxter's empty satchel. Daxter reached in, pulling out a small metal tab.

A mini-telecommunicator?

"Me need speak to Krew. Real important!"

Jak slyly glanced over to Daxter, who was turning over the communicator to see 'Property of Hip Hog Heaven Saloon' marked down. There was no screen, only thin slits for recording or transferring messages. It didn't look like there was any way to contact someone with it, meaning it was probably used more for the latter. Though, the small, clearly hidden wiretap that was in the largest slit must be used for getting information that wouldn't necessarily give freely, suggested otherwise. Sig wasn't kidding when he said Krew really had everything bugged.

They didn't need to see who it was to know who was trying to contact Krew. There was only one person, or lurker, they knew that talked like that.

"Brutter?"

"Little Orangey Pal! You help lurkers twos, you help us threes? Oooh! You honorary lurker can come to lurker gathering! We celebrate free lurkers, but we no have hero! Krew comes, he saves many lurker brothers, but you do out of kindness. Maybe you come instead?"

Jak slightly smacked his face at the request. Brutter was a good guy and had probably shown the most, if not all, gratitude they received out of everyone they helped back in Haven, but now was not the time. Unless Brutter was a gift sent by the precursors and somehow had a way to prove someone is an heir of Mar, there wasn't much else to talk about.

Then again, maybe the lurkers would take him after being exiled from both Haven and Spargus. Jak gave off a light snort at the thought.

"Brother Jak! You come too, yes? Lurker people happy if savior come! Honorary lurkers rare, we have none since we get trapped when city enslave us. Last rulers nice, they come visit lurkers. New ruler benevolent, but she no comes. We no mind, only last rulers needed."

Jak gave Daxter a wry glance as if another adventure were about to start. "Last rulers?"

"Of big city! They real nice, they come honor alliance for a long time. We no hear from them now, but we keep our promise, we show we good now! No more bad-to-bone lurkers! Yes yes, we keep our word to brother Mar! You come and see all lurkers good?"

Jak shot straight up, glaring down at Daxter when he heard that name. Daxter saw that flame of determination spark.

Did brother Mar mean...?

Neither were good at history, evidently showing how often they ignored Samos' ramblings about Haven's past. Jak was interested in Mar's history, but not thoroughly enough to put time off looking. History had shown Mar as an amazing hero, but had he formed an alliance with lurker tribes? It would definitely add another cherry on top of his now known list of accomplishments.

"Hey Brutter, is there an, uh, _reason_ Mar's heir has to be at the ceremony to, y'know, _uphold_ the alliance?" Daxter questioned. From his last round of talking to a lurker, they had been forced to go on another suicide mission, and he silently prayed this wouldn't be the same.

"You are smart, Orangey Pal! Brother Mar was smart too! We think he pompous like other two, but he good, no trick. Old lurker shaman seal with brother Mar's blood. Only little ones open door now, but we no see them since last ruler."

Daxter blinked. Did he just say blood?

"Yeah, we'll be there," Jak said, ignoring Daxter who had already placed a finger up in protest, turning to speak before getting cut off. Daxter's finger drooped as he took a deep sigh. Can't get your two orbs in now that Jak could talk. Then again, even when he couldn't Jak always got the final "word" in.

Large shoulders visibly sunk in relief now that another option opened to them. Jak turned, brushing his hand on Daxter's head to show that he had, once again, reassured himself that everything was going to be alright. Brutter was a godsend, an unlikely purple lurker godsend. What was next? Damas rushing in to tell them that he now knew he sired him? How this day was going, anything could happen.

"Good! We prepare for you, reveal location soon! You be impressed with lurker people, we promise!"

A loud pop as the transmission ended filtered throughout Daxter's conscious. Well, probably from the transmission ending. He always considered himself going insane like a loud popping followed by intangible yelling, in most imaginative bouts directly aimed at Jak.

He was scarcely given a choice anyhow. Someone had to go and protect Jak, even if he was _coerced_ into going against his better judgment. Samos needed to give him more credit for being Jak's voice of reason. Ignored voice of reason, but still there nonetheless giving words of advice, though not entirely excluded from sarcasm.

" _Jak! That's not a vine!"_

" _See that yellow box's symbol? Means 'no touchie' so ya don't touch it!"_

" _Yeah, go pet evil lurker puppies, great idea… Jak, I was kidding!"_

Speaking of lurkers…

"Are you _crazy_?!" Studying Daxter in askance, Jak hesitated to respond before the voice piped up again. "Nope, notta _chance_. Yer outta your skull if you think we're going to lurker city."

Brutter sending them both into Krimzon Guard ambushes did not exactly bring in any confidence from Daxter, who very well remembered being exhausted afterward despite not doing any running.

"He's a good guy, Dax. Besides, lurkers never were our enemies." Jak spoke honestly as if lurkers hadn't tried to kill him on multiple occasions. Nope, no blue behemoths slamming clubs down with intent to kill. And those purple guys just wanted to invite them over to dinner. On the menu? A Jak Roast accompanied by ottsel stew!

"Y'know they _eat_ people, right? They'd probably eat _ottsels_ too. Crunching is _not_ how I'm kicking it, ya hear?"

Jak pursed his lips at the comments, looking at Daxter sharply.

Daxter sighed. Worrying was a stressful job, but someone had to do it.

Jak moved the two metal boxes off the bed, before once again firing off a leer in the ottsel's direction, who was trying everything in his power to dissuade him from going. He snickered before perusing at a certain wastelander's incessant want to taste ottsel. "Kleiver'd like them then."

"Oh, ya think that's _funny_?" Daxter huffed. "I swear I'm haunting your dreams if I become a snack! Make you have nightmares o' him slobbering all over you. His 'oi poppy' gives me a heart attack since you bet me on a buggy runt."

Jak laughed at the small, disgruntle stature, denoting the ottsel's contempt in his previous gamblings.

Daxter's face fell, half-heartedly stopping his protest in not becoming a meal for a lurker. It was always great to hear Jak laugh, but he wished that it was at something _actually_ funny, like his wise-cracking humor. Kleiver staring down from a distance was enough to scare anyone, but he swore those lips got licked in anticipation thinking about what he tasted like. This ottsel tasted probably chewy with a hint of cannibalism. Then again, that might not be enough to stop him.

There was no chance of winning the argument if he continued. Even if Jak didn't give him crocadog eyes with a matching pout, he couldn't say no. Well, he could, but fate, or Jak's hand in most cases, would have wound him up precisely on that shoulder screaming as his psychotic driver flung himself into whatever they shouldn't be doing.

"You remember what your uncle said." Daxter cleared his throat, arching his hand against his snout pretending to twirl an imaginary mustache. "Well, my dear boy, those lurkers are opposites to your pleasantly charming friend, wherever he may be. Harumph! I tell you, those offensive brutes quite near took my leg and fancied a treat of our poor cabin boy."

"Pleasantly charming friend?" Jak snorted. "That _definitely_ sounds like him."

"Yeah, well honorifics don't do me justice, y'know? Told 'em 'your majesty' wasn't cutting it, and they'd better improvise."

"Like Lord Teeth?" Jak lightly tapped on a chipped front tooth as his smug grin formed.

"Hey! Y'know I'm sensitive about that, Butterfingers. Lest you forget the whole town on your case after letting that ball hit a wumpbee nest. Sheesh, you looked scarier than Kor after that. Uglier too. The green popped out of Samos right when he saw you."

Another snort.

Jak's face turned pensive after. He didn't recall the wumpbee stings being that bad, and if he remembered correctly it was Daxter's fault entirely too, aiming for that nest to relieve stress from getting a stern talking-to by Samos for missing a speck of dust that the sage himself made. He had to admit that Samos didn't need to whack him that hard either, and his most of his birthday then spent trying to console Daxter. Unfortunately, his present was finding himself at the end of a small, flare of rage.

Daxter apologized profusely after Samos left to make more ointment for his stings, saying he shouldn't have done that and how he never meant to hurt him. Even after the swollen thumb went up with a smile, the redhead kept saying it.

Always apologizing.

Why did everyone in Sandover hate Daxter? Jak couldn't remember a time when Daxter did anything to them that wasn't out of retaliation. It wasn't out of hatred, and his uncle even told him of a proverb from a land he once visited that fit Daxter's actions. How did it go again? Something about a child that wasn't accepted in a village?

Well, Jak accepted Daxter no matter what he did or said.

"Y'know what," Daxter scowled at the over-thinking of his comeback, looking as the blonde lifted himself up. "I'll come with ya, but one of these days you'll _actually_ listen to me. Probably be lying there because of who knows what, and I'll climb up, stare you in the eyes, and tell ya that I told you so."

Jak looked out the large open window before rolling his eyes at Daxter's musings. As if that would ever happen. "You're there to not let that happen. That's what you do."

The small brazier extinguished under its bronze clasp. Jak stifled out a weak yawn, watching the clashing stars form a deep purple in the night sky. It looked the same as it had in Sandover all those years ago, though he doubted that Damas picked the view for that reason.

Jak winced, rubbing his eyes at a slight tingle of pain. Apparently sleeping for several days can make you tired and hurt all over, though the lack of activity is the culprit behind aching bones. Restlessness even when unconscious but Daxter was here now and it was all he needed.

Daxter plopped down on the bed, squinting into the darkness. "Can't win with ya 'cause I got responsibilities."

 _That's all I'm good for anyways._

Knuckles reflexively cracked. "Don't say that."

"Huh?" Darkness hid it, but the ottsel was raising an eyebrow at Jak's statement. "That I got responsibility over ya?"

"Don't _ever_ say that's all you're good for."

An exhausted thump rippled through the bed as Jak landed down, slightly startling Daxter who was still engrossed in what Jak meant. Don't ever say that's all you're good for? He had never said that out loud, and never especially meant it when rambling on inside his head. Everyone said it, or at least thought it, but if he listened to everyone that said anything about him he'd be in more pieces than Haven currently was.

"I'll have you know I'm good for a lotta things! Don't remember berating myself being one of 'm."

' _You're on my shoulder, you're the sidekick' right?_

"You're not the sidekick to me, Dax." Jak's tone settled to a worried hush as the covers began to pull.

"Gotcha. Last time I checked, there was no 'I' in 'team.' Then again, you never were the best speller. And remember, if it weren't for _me_ you'd be metal head chow."

 _If you're nothing special, why kid yourself_

"Dax, I'm serious," Jak said in a low voice, solemnly staring down at orange fur through the dimmed moonlight.

"Old Greeny was too. Said I was taking you away from those studies. Whacked me harder than usual. Made me want to call him how you spelt 'beach.' That welt would'a got worse though, but man it'd be worth it."

"Daxter." Coarse hands tousled through fur, pulling Daxter closer to the voice. He squirmed under the hand, attempting to free himself from the heavy and grounding grip to no avail. He was scooted near Jak, being pulled close enough to hear the light breathing. Pulling turned to lifting as two hands scooped him up and dropped him on Jak's chest. "I'm serious."

"You doing ok, big guy? Ain't like you to have mood swings like this no more." Fuzzy ears drooped as the breathing got deeper. Jak dug his fingers deep into the fur as if he was making sure he was still there. He sneered as the light, jerky petting motions began. Being petted was great and all, especially in the right places, but Jak always started off so… rough.

"I… yeah. Just… thanks."

"For being your personal scratching post? I know I can get ya to purr, but sheesh! Only room for one animal in this duo, and ya don't need to act like a muse." Daxter joked, listening as Jak's heart began to thump slower. Despite his rough appearance, Jak was exceptionally gentle when he wanted to be. Jerky motions soon changed into relaxed patterns along the ottsel's back.

"Just imagining things." Jak snorted. He really must have hit his head hard. His thoughts did bring up something he always wondered but never asked. Daxter always said he was doing great, but if he hadn't been a compulsive liar when it benefited him then Jak wouldn't have thought otherwise. After ample searching, there never came up any Ozmo who oversaw a company called Kridder Ridder, but there were many reports about a small, fuzzy rodent stealing fruit and vegetables from stalls.

"Hey, Dax...?"

"Don't get all angsty on me right after I said I'd be eaten by lurkers for you. Better be the best thing they've ever tasted, make 'em want seconds. And if ya angst I'll taste funny."

"Why let others get to you?" Jak's heart stilled as he spoke in an honest tone.

"Gotta be at our best, y'know?" Daxter guessed. "Last person who gave you constructive criticism found themselves at the front end of a zoomer. They say it to me and I'll be merciful an' let 'em off easy, but if I'm in a mood they get the fangs, and your gun if they deserve it. 'Sides, Ima little better at taking negativity 'cause I don't get touched at every bad word thrown my way."

Daxter didn't take someone calling him a rat lightly, but he did handle it better than Jak, who took negative comments with the whole salt shaker. Someone walked out the Naughty Ottsel after muttering a certain word under their breath, and seconds later Jak said he had an errand to do for Torn. It must have been quick for him, returning to his stool within a minute. Jinx always said it was four-star quality service for speed and resilience, but he had to deduct points for running over a few civilians, and maybe a guard or two.

Jak went quiet after the response, most likely listing off instances where he hadn't taken criticism well. The scratching returned in metronymic patterns minutes later, lulling Daxter in before the large body ceremoniously shifted on his side, making sure to give the ottsel enough room. Curling up against the fabric with a light nuzzling ushered the other hand to wrap around Daxter before Jak started again.

"Don't let… you down …better 'an any of 'em know."

"Yeah, yeah, ya big lug. Just keep scratching right… _there._ And get some sleep too, will ya? Can't run from being a meal if yer tired." Daxter said, sprawling himself out into the grip. "An' let me remind you that just 'cause you know where to scratch does not mean I ain't mad at you fer almost dying on me."

"Mmhm."

Daxter quietly sighed before accepting the same apology for the umpteenth time, swearing to himself that this was the last time he'd ever let Jak get away with it. Well, it wasn't a particularly cold night, but the warmth was duly accepted. And if Jak wanted to use him as an ottsel plush, then he'd use him as an ottsel plush. He'd already gotten used to it over the years, but ever since the Precursors came along the frequent need hadn't been there. Fewer nightmares was good, but the feeling of being wanted was nice.

He listened as Jak's heart started down to an unwavering rhythm. He had to admit hearing that steady heartbeat was a lullaby that none other could offer. Comforting, safe chest movements to let him know his friend was asleep, and in turn the little weight reassured Jak that he wouldn't be alone in his dreams.

All Jak needed to do now was put his thumb in his mouth and Damas wouldn't be able to deny that he was his baby boy.

* * *

The throne room went dark as the compacted light from his bedchamber extinguished. Had Damas the intention of sleeping, his bed, occupied by Jak, and possibly that ottsel as well, was not comforting for thoughts. It was allowed to return after he willed it, watching as the small rodent waddled in carrying a pile of clothes, sporadically popping his head over to ensure it wasn't walking towards the water.

Daxter. Its name was Daxter.

Jak himself said this Daxter was not a pet, though it was hard to see otherwise. There was no contending against it, but it may have been as smart as any animal and was certainly as loyal as a crocadog. Had it been a kangarat that could talk, only the blonde would notice.

Damas had known it existed for well over the past months, never having been intrigued by its origins enough to ask. Daxter was his own being, entirely separate from Jak, yet it was true that without him Jak would not be _Jak_.

Damas guessed that he would need to recognize Daxter as his own being to gain its trust. That would not prove troublesome as none had viewed him more than Jak's alternative voice. Giving him attention or reciprocating a conversation would prove easy enough, and it would ease his mind had he found out Jak's companion was trustworthy. Maybe he would even learn how to get a laugh out of his so-

Damas reconciled with that thought, rebounding to what loomed in the back of his mind.

Was Jak his Mar?

No. Jak couldn't be. Mar is only a child.

Was.

Damas never wanted to think about the truth, but there was no doubt that he was now the last surviving heir of Mar. His entire life, taken from him within an instant by Praxis.

The day Mar was conceived brought meaning back into his life. His pride and joy. Ruling Haven was a daunting task, yet family softened it. Dealing with other royal families, negotiating political treaties, and assuring Haven's survival seemed trivial afterward. That loving embrace from his wife and a small grasp on his finger from his son just made it all so distant.

Praxis wanted no competition for Haven's throne, threatening other royal families that once sided with that of Mar's. Damas could do nothing as the council aligned against him. Pleading did not matter. Sacrifice did not matter. Nothing mattered to them except power. Power _his_ family had.

It was a tactful move, ushering even his own pieces against him. Was Praxis right in that family made him weak? He was too weak to save his family. Too weak to hold on as his wife was ripped from his arms. Too weak to find his son.

That was not necessarily true.

Had he found him?

"Your lordship, may we interject?"

Damas looked forward at the two figures, one cloaked in black. Seem stood before him at such an unruly time, with an inconspicuous character at their side. It may have been dark, but he could tell they were no monk.

"Ah, Seem. There has been much on my mind as of late. You are here at a most inopportune moment, but I shall take it as important." Damas addressed, glancing over at his bedchamber's curtain. It was an odd hour of the night, but they now could safely talk without fear of awakening anyone.

"I have brought you Orphne. She is the historian of eco that I have spoken on before. They have helped us through many trials and—" Seem's voice was cut short as they stumbled slightly. A hand fell onto their shoulder from Damas' grimacing visitor, helping them return to balance. It was late, and even Precursor monks could become exhausted.

" _And_?"

"—may shed light on your _request._ They have knowledge associated with the matter." Seem stated, regaining their balance as the figure, presumably Orphne, bowed.

Damas rubbed his chin, raising an eyebrow at the scene. Seem had looked tipsier than that forager who came back with inedible cacti, reporting they could see a new color before passing out on his throne steps. If they were in their right mind, and meant that this visitor could be trusted, then he was in no place to second guess.

Orphne's cloaked hood descended, revealing a large pair of spectacles before deep red pupils. Orange-tinged hair in a large bun, a style that Damas was unfamiliar with in his many years. Those clothes did not scream Havenite and stuck out like a sore thumb in any crowd in Spargus. Far too uppity for Kras folk as well, though her complexion was soft enough to coax any crime lord of their kind.

It was troubling that Seem never informed him of a historian named Orphne. Though they reported that no _monk_ knew of Jak's past, that did not include other sources they may have, and if they had helped the monks they may not have been from the best crowd. It had also been quite fast, asking again only days before Jak's actual revival.

" _This_ is Orphne?" Damas gruffly asked, grazing his chin in thought while staring down the figure before him. "Why would _you_ have information I need?"

"I _am_ your lordship. You see, I was an esteemed historian on eco and its uses for city projects during your rule, and I regret that it ended so abruptly." Orphne apologetically bowed, to what could be considered offering her sympathies.

"This is no place for sorrows. My rule over Haven is but a memory, and sympathy in Spargus will land on deaf ears. You said you had information to offer." Damas continued, glaring down at her.

Her teeth sharply clenched, returning to a smile after a deep breath. She did hold the disharmonious attitude of a palace historian, though more on the disagreeable side compared to those other types. A shortcoming, but if Damas had done something about every person who barred their teeth in dissent he'd have kicked out half of his new citizens.

"I do. Have you ever heard of the _Dark Warrior Program_?"

"Dark Warrior Program?"

Damas had heard little of what happened in Haven after cutting ties with the Underground. It had taken getting used to, but Haven was no longer of his concern. Sig was his only informant, tasked with more important matters than trying to list off what Praxis had done since he was exiled. Apparently, that list grew faster than a weed.

"Praxis wanted to make a weapon for _something_. You see, he ordered me to act as an adjudicator for his _projects_. They picked troubled children for the experiments, thinking no one would miss them had their attempts gone _awry,_ to say the least."

"Troubled children?" Damas prodded at her statements. Too straightforward. If they experimented on children, anyone would wince at hearing a child's screams. Praxis was quite the minacious man, and someone as fragile as her must have broken under him to even think about committing such atrocities. Appearance does not equate to strength, though there was something maniacal behind the speech. It couldn't be helped now, another thing that he could have prevented if he was still the ruler of Haven.

"They abandoned a sector of the city, rounding up any children who were alone and _offered_ them a chance to serve. They tied them down and forced us to begin experiments on them as they entered. We were to watch and study dark eco's effects on the body, and our work quickly went from observing experiments to alerting guards another perished."

"Go on," Damas said flatly, eyes fixated on the speaker.

Orphne grimaced at the order before continuing.

"One subject stood out among the rest, the one Praxis was _proud_ of. He never spoke and had just been assigned a number and a title between the guards, though I can't place it now. The other subjects changed in ways this one had not, where they laid dead as flies while he took every dosage. At first little happened, and they relished in beating him until he screamed. Once he did, they made him continue until he broke."

Damas bit his lip. Those guards had given Jak that title, a title he was all too familiar with now. Reaching the breaking point of humanity, being called less than a person, an 'eco-freak.' "You say he broke?"

"Yes, your lordship. One day, while we were sealing his wounds, his eyes just turned black. We thought nothing of it, seepage into the cornea was a common sight, but then this boy ripped himself free and lunged. I was applying the salve and was close enough to see Praxis just grab him."

"And?" Damas rested a loose fist against his lips, staring down at her frailing figure. Her body lied like a cheap rug, but there were some similarities between what Jak had looked like from the arena. Anyone could have known of such a folly, but Jak's muteness…?

Damas had begun to wish he hadn't asked her to continue.

"He slammed him down on the table doing it over, and over until the boy changed back. We'd never seen this happen before, and as sad as it was seeing such a young child writhe, it was a breakthrough. Praxis made us increase the dosages, even increasing the amount of disciplining for not responding. We never saw anything like this after and the project was terminated."

Thankfully, Pecker was not here for palming bloody crescents would have been a sign of ill omen. Disciplining. The word spat like poison. Praxis was lucky to be dead, for the afterlife would be far more forgiving than the 'disciplining' he would have received.

"When he changed. Describe him." Damas rested his teeth from clenching. He had to continue. Desperation led many to do questionable things before, and none were more desperate than a father trying to find the truth.

"Pale as death, your lordship. His hair turned a sharp gray, and our readings expressed an increase in heart rate and muscle contraction. There were these black horns that twisted from his skull, and dark claws that cut through his harnesses. Then his eyes went black, and he just smiled."

Stronger. A contorted version, much like what had happened in the arena. It was too convenient, yet…

"He smiled?"

Orphne raised her hand to her head, pushing through loose strands of hair that fell from her bun."I assume it was out of seeing Praxis as it only grew wider as his claws drew closer. Praxis was cut on the neck, which was what prompted him to do what he did, or was the excuse he gave. He persisted with the experiments after for several months, but I believe it was more out of spite than _hope_ as the boy never changed again."

Hope.

Damas would have smirked if he hadn't known the severity of what he was being told. Jak fought back, even then, alone and with the odds far against him out of that word. It was reassuring that now Jak wasn't alone, and there wasn't a need for that word. He had that Daxter at his side, and Spargus standing behind him, and now his-

No, there was a lack of testament to Jak's past. Seem's sources, albeit morally ambiguous in nature, were reliable, but this was something that their word alone could not support.

"I assume there is evidence? Words dry up in the desert, and I shall not be taken aback without such." Damas said, eyes closing while taking in a heavy breath, making no contact to Orphne.

"I must apologize. Desert travel has made me quite weary, and I must have forgotten my papers." She swallowed hard, frantically fumbling through her satchel. Damas was still somehow watching as tales of Spargus' king always caused concern for when blindness brought safety, but all said he could sense movement. She moved to her pockets, pulling out a long chain, ending with metal embellished with ancient Precursor text. "I do keep this on me, to never forget, and there is no doubt that this they will remember it."

Jak will remember?

Damas gazed down, peering at the small amulet in her hands. Ushering her forward, he watched as she clambered up the stone steps, tediously watching every move. She bowed before him, raising her head to fix her glasses before grabbing his hand. Delicate, smooth skin slipped from his grasp, cupping the cold metal in his palm. Orphne simpered, slowly stepping down towards the monk.

"I take that you will… deliver these papers as well?" His words began to stifle, too fixated on the amulet to notice. He nodded to her, too consumed in thought to understand her hushed 'yes, your lordship,' before continuing. "And that… he will remember this?"

"Of course. I have _no_ doubt in that. That was all I could save of his belongings. Well, from what _Praxis_ took from him," she rasped, walking off towards the elevator.

Damas gripped his face, rubbing his temples as a sharp pain shot through him. Whether it was from the touch of metal against the bleeding crescents in his palm, or what, was unclear.

"Oh, and do remember to give this _only_ to Jak. It _is_ for him after all."

Give this only to Jak? "But is he my son? What will these reveal?"

"Everything, your lordship, " she smiled, fixing her hair. "May we go? Seem doesn't appear to be handling a lack of sleep as well as you are, and we can continue this later once I bring the papers."

Damas turned, only to see that grimace again. There was no hesitation in her voice now, nor undertones of grief for breaching a story of a fate worse than hell. "Very well, we will continue this in… due time." Damas ended, weakly waving them off. Red eyes shot out at him, piercing the darkness as they descended.

He wiped the miniature beads of sweat forming from his forehead, meekly looking at his bedchamber curtain. Papers or not, every boy needed a father, and if Jak asked him there was nothing preventing him from it. Even if he wasn't his son, he could take him in as if he was Mar. No, Jak was much too old for that. Teach? That was enough.

Rubbing the now dried blood off the worn markings with his thumb, he began to cradle the amulet. There was nothing special about it, but it was for Jak. If it had meant something to him, then returning it to him was the least he could do. Something had just felt off about it all, as if going through with such actions were tempting a fate unbeknownst to him.

It was warm, pulsating even, the aroma of flowers lulling his senses. His throne turned dark, brass in comparison to its stone surface. The warmth of a soft hand leaving his as the amulet became supple as if the world around him melted.

Intrusive thoughts were not something he needed now, yet they thrived like the palace gardens. Water flowed freely around him glimmering in the sunlight, lively footsteps entangled in a game of chase bound through the halls.

"Caught you."

His head spun swiftly at the voice, eyeing the white dress adorned with gold lace that flowed freely. Green above baby blue eyes ran through the palace flower beds, his mother quick in tow chasing him. Blonde hair shaded a deep green gracefully billowing behind her, outshining the sun in its splendor. It was a rare day for it to rise above Haven, and it only seemed to send those gleaming rays around them.

No. He was in Spargus, but...

Others brushed into view, walking costively as they watched on with grim smiles. Light blues stood motionless as reds shadowed, metal and husks of that symbol turning for the inner chamber. Incoherent calls murmured but trimmed from pained thought.

Laughter from his son caught and pulled into a loving embrace swished around lovingly in pale, white arms. Placed down before her, Mar looked up to the one who captured him, an open smile laid on his face.

This was—

"What have I told you about playing in the flower bed?" Her voice carried throughout the room, captivating Damas in how soft she spoke. Soft, yet loud enough to disgrace the other looming. The one that tore them from him.

" _Damas of the House of Mar, you are brought before the Grand Council of Haven City to openly attest for your faults as king."_

A sea of beryl and alabaster, ravaged by a child's playfulness. Bliss from such amusement had caused him to forget they were there. How easily they broke under his heel.

"Look at them, and they were such a beautiful shade of blue."

Delicate hands dressed in white silk, garnished by a deep green as the stem snapped from her pluck. The petals had repressed their graceful blue, now tender and bleeding.

" _Damas, you and the House of Mar stand accused of being unable and unwilling to protect Haven City from rampant scourges of metal heads. Disregarding the safety of your citizens and fellow noble houses to further your own house's affluence is abhorrent. How do you attest to this?"_

An easy laugh escaped her, blossom passing through her hands as she shifted to Mar. "Have you been practicing lately?"

A fastidious nod, eyes eagerly showing they knew what to do. Little hands wrapped around the mound of flowers, stems swelling dark green. A quick turn, looking for their father's approval, a look of enthusiasm before returning.

The face glowed with excitement, flowers erecting and reaching for the disserving boy. Growth, clustering and thriving above the one who razed them.

" _Damas of the House of Mar, you stand accused on grounds pertaining to aiding and abetting the Underground's resistance coup on the House of Praxis. The House of Praxis, subordinate to Haven City as are all great houses, assumed the role of military commandant over Haven's newly formed Krimzon Guard under your rule. How do you attest to this accusation?"_

Blue pored over skywards, amazed at what they could do before stumbling backward into his mother's arms. An open smile, kissing her cheek before freeing himself and running off again.

He spurned away.

This was a daydream, nothing more. This was the day before it happened, and Mar was gone, and his wife was—

"He's quite a handful." She giggled. "You were too when we were children, Damas."

Her hand fell on his, staring out as Mar continued his work. Velvet to the touch, undulating vivid motions as if they were true. His hand guardedly wrapped around hers, folding over them gently. They were warm.

There was something wrong, this was a memory.

"He'll grow up much like his father. A proud and strong ruler, compassionate and loving too."

The ripple of water from attendants, gracefully pouring out the contents on the lush foliage. Leaves gave way to dirt, pirouetting under the clear respite cascading down.

"… _And, Damas of the House of Mar, you and houses aligned with yours stand accused of treason of the highest order in negotiating civil war within Haven's walls to weaken the Grand Council's ability to maintain order. The Grand Council of Haven City was founded by your ancestors, and you are accused of attempting to disenfranchise our ability to serve and guide our citizens. How do you attest to these charges?"_

Damas shifted as his chest sunk with pain. Gripping tighter, his hand was pulled up to lips for a gentle, reassuring kiss. Deep blue eyes, heavyhearted, yet tranquil in the serene moment. "Is something the matter, Damas? A day as beautiful as this is not one for dwelling on politics."

He shook his head, glimpsing as Mar ran his hands through the verdant garden, pulling out a white lily in triumph.

She looked down solemnly, before raising her head once again to Damas. "Oh, how silly of me. You have that meeting with the Grand Council."

Gracing his cheek, she pulled down a single, wet finger. Her blue eyes faded into a reassuring hush. "Don't be afraid, they adore you."

Footsteps running towards the ones they loved. A thrush of flowers eloquently clattering against another, shedding a petal or leaf as they clashed. A bouquet of lilies, cut at different lengths by a child's enthusiastic hands. Sudden, short bursts of excited breathing before them.

"Oh, are these for us? You're so thoughtful, Mar." She laughed sweetly, cupping her hands in glee.

Mar gave an ardent nod with a happy pat on a calloused, fabric-clad knee. Damas gazed at the smiling boy before him, reaching out and feeling through the soft, jade hair. It skimmed beneath the palm, smoothly prickling on his rough skin.

"Look, Damas, aren't they beautiful? Lilies always were my favorite. We could have them next to your throne, or…"

An intoxicating, honeyed fragrance, provocative of fond memories.

That was all these were: memories.

" _Very well then. Damas, for such acts you shall be stripped of your title, and your house removed from the Grand Council. However, for negotiating peacefully, you shall be exiled into the wasteland. You are never to return to Haven City or find safety within her walls…"_

Rushing off as a butterfly fluttered past, its golden red piquing interest from wandering eyes. It felt so real as if he was still here.

"He's growing so fast. If we look away, I swear we'll turn around one day and he'll be all grown."

All grown. Agony and pain scarred those words. They meant being hardened by war and death, growing without those you loved.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen a lily of such a pure violet." Hands caressed the lily, pressed against the clipped stem. She affectionately looked down, tenderly brushing it through her palms. Had it not been culled so young, it would have been the gem of Haven's garden.

"… _and for those captured within the Underground movement, and all active members of royal families that have sided with you. Execution. Take them away to individual holding cells for now. Public executions will be held hereafter, and Damas' expulsion will be held this forenight. We are done here; the council is adjourned."_

Peacefulness shattered. Red-tipped boots careened down the garden path, forcing through the crowd of nobles. Light blue, emblazoned with the seal of Mar, approached hazily.

"What's going on? Are we under attack?" She stood up, warily searching for Mar before turning her attention to the crowd of red.

"My lady, please come with—"

Carmine sputtered out, dancing along the lax jaw as lips parted to finish. Eyes filled before with such kindness and care, now brimming with dismay as the guard fell before her with a crack. A beautiful white, now bashed with blood as the lily dropped.

"Damas of the House of Mar. You are under arrest and are to be brought before the Grand Council of Haven City." The sound struck through the metal mask.

Boots clicked violently and melodically as a voice droned in, unhinged and apathetic. "We _are_ authorized to use force if necessary, and it would be a shame if there was another _accident_."

A whimper, snuffed out as glint shone, tears running down cheeks to the poised blade beneath the plump chin. All Damas could do was watch as a finger raised, gun in hand, heralding another to advance through blonde hair.

" _You swore they would be spared!"_

The amulet clattered against grey slate, sliding to the water's edge. Damas' hand returned to his forehead, brooding off sweat while regaining his breath in deep gasps. It was just a memory, something that was over.

It was still night, moonlight solemnly greeting him from behind. There was nothing of it, just a dream. She couldn't have been here, and Mar was gone. Yet, in that instant, it felt too real, as if nothing had changed.

Brass now stood still, lifeless to how it drummed on with his thoughts before. Damas propped himself up with his staff as he walked towards it, wearily tracing the stone steps. It was too important to lose, and he shouldn't have carelessly thrown it because of some delusion.

A soft crunch disturbed beneath his sole. He glimpsed down, pulling his foot from where he had stepped. Taking a knee, he felt around, pausing at the touch of a softened point. It rested easily in his hand, brought forward to the moonlight to see what he had ambled on.

A broken, violet lily.

" _I believe I swore to a king, Damas. Are you a king?"_

* * *

Author's Note: (Sorry, these are probably annoying but I like them and makes me feel like I know what's going on in my story)

I enjoyed this chapter, but that might be because I know what's happening and I also spent a lot of time writing and going over it. Also fluff and ottsel snuggling, and whatever happened at the end.

Now, before anyone gets angry and says Jak wouldn't act like that, my head-canon is that he is a sweet and sensitive boy when he's alone with Daxter now that he's balanced out with light eco (also the lack of stress from having to save the world helps. Said stress will return, so don't worry). I also wanted to explore Damas' past, but I think I now have him going insane with conflicting flashbacks, and I didn't have a name for his wife. (Slightly OOC because, ya know, almost dying then watching Jak almost die). Who knew the king of Spargus was angsty? Like father like son, huh?

(Your boat ride has brought you to the over-dramatic chapter three, but if you think Captain Brutter or any other shipmates are talking OOC then please let me know)

Lastly, big thanks to Lami for reviewing! I think I fixed a few of the erratic POV changes from the last chapter, but let me know if I didn't since there is a lot more talking.


	4. Chapter 4 - A Kindled Mind

**\- Chapter 4 - A Kindled Mind -**

The world never was kind to those that dwelt in the past. Damas knew that all too well, but this time it had felt so real and that lily…

It was an unusual night, to say the least. Mocking silence filled with familiar scents that aroused something from long ago. As the lily dissipated at his touch, the intrusive thoughts rapped away at his skull in a searing pain. It was all hushed away at hearing such pure sounds, ones like those from when the world made sense. Damas would have never expected something as such to come from a warrior as tough as Jak. A snore many would find adorable, child-like even, followed by a soft humming with contented snuffling. Even his laugh was a rougher version of Mar's…

"Sandman! Happy to see my furry tail again?"

Maybe he could ask Daxter how he had accomplished such a feat. Damas knew memories were harsh reminders, but they were also a sweet, tempting respite back to when times were simpler. There would be no shame in adding it to his ever-growing list of duties just to reminisce in hearing that laugh once again.

 _No_ , they were just memories. It was troubling though, to have such a bewilderment torn away, to cease right as that amulet left his grasp. It was as if _it_ was arousing them into motion.

There would be no reward for further thinking. Damas removed himself from such innocent thoughts before finally answering the nasally voice, of whom he was, oddly, happy to hear. "I take that you have rested well?"

"Since yer giving us the royal treatment, there a continental breakfast bar too?" The ottsel asked facetiously. The gloved, orange hand began to rub the yellow stomach as the other arm was flung out in a stretch. "Jak's probably hungry too after wrestling with a _certain_ one-eyed wastelander last night."

A word would have come from Jak had the second voice not interjected, taking his place in the conversation. The blonde had, however, cast his arms back in a reaching stretch. His shoulder seemed to have fully healed, though a lack of activity caused a sharp popping to echo throughout the room. The loud smack also reverberated, as could the dirty look the ottsel returned while rubbing the back of his head.

"I have heard moncaw is a rare delicacy. Had that Pecker been here to give his inane advice I would have gladly offered it." Damas deadpanned, sending a tuft of air from his nose at his own attempt at humor. "I had not seen Sig or Talby come through last night for such an event either. Perhaps I should look into the matter."

A green eyebrow cocked at Damas before it turned to Daxter, befuddled and looking for an explanation as to whatever _that_ was supposed to be. The ottsel returned the look, going on a slight facial journey to not only interpret the king purposely trying to tell a joke, but also in understanding the second half of it. "Uh, ya don't gotta do that."

They sat in uncomfortable silence until Damas garishly cleared his throat. Analyzing the situation, it appeared his attempt at imitating the ottsel's humor had confused Jak more than anything he could have hoped to do. Learning was always a slow, but awkward, process for anyone. However, Sig and Talby were the only one-eyed wastelanders that were still active unless that, too, was a joke on Daxter's part.

"Jak," Damas continued to deflect, temporarily ignoring Daxter for the teen in blue who stood before him. It would be for the best to start what he would ask later anyhow. "The duties of a wastelander are never done. Though the war for the world may be over, there are always those who aim to crush us. Are you prepared to venture back out into the wasteland and fight for Spargus?"

"Yeah, I've been getting a little rusty," Jak returned, now stretching his arms across his chest. There was a glimmer of eagerness in his eyes, roaring for battle. "Needed some target practice."

Damas grimaced before coaxing an apathetic smile on his face. It made him proud that Jak would risk his life without so much as a second thought for Spargus as those were, undeniably, the ones you could depend on. However, it was now disheartening to hear a boy so young satisfied with the grim fate of death, especially now that he knew the wasteland had not instilled it in him as it had many others.

"Opponents best to shake off the rust, I take it? Good. There have been reports on marauder activity near the settlement ruins. From this, we have located a small detachment. I shall be sending Sig to accompany you," Damas announced. That would be good for now. Sig could easily defend himself and Jak, and if things turned for the worse then there was no better man to turn to.

The squirrely voice picked back up in the room, obstructing the sound of draining waterfalls. " _Marauders_? Seriously? I swear, they can never get enough of us. And right after we saved 'em _and_ the world too! Why couldn't we be fighting off everyone who wanted to kiss out feet for being their saviors?"

"Don't worry, Dax. They're easy enough." Jak gave a reassuring wink to Daxter.

The gesture was given little thought as a twinge of pain rested in Damas' shoulder. He peered over his exposed collarbone, watching as a thin, dark purple mark stretched along the vein. That had confirmed his suspicion of the amulet being unnatural, and that meant the matter at hand was direr than previously thought.

Bronze metal glided from his pocket, balling up as Damas cradled it in his palm once again. His thumb brushed over the inscriptions repeatedly: cold and dead, countering how it drummed on with life before. That essence that once poised itself within was feigning in strength but was still present. "Before you go, Jak. It is good to know that you are eager to serve Spargus once again after our… incident."

Jak gave off a slight snort at the remark, showing a small smirk in the process. It appeared Damas showing himself to be a true warrior only made Jak admire him more, even though he could have been mortally wounded or have been killed.

"We'll need to get ready first. Y'saw how squishy he gets without his armor," Daxter said wryly, pushing his finger into Jak's cheek. He expected the smack this time, defensively placing his hands up to block the blow. The blonde overcame it, poking the now exposed side, turning back to a hard-nosed face as the ottsel rebounded.

"Indeed." Damas stopped, glimpsing at the dark sliver once more. He didn't know what to say next, remembering how vivid memories had rushed through him to cover a now subsiding pain. It was undeniable that he needed to resupply himself with light eco, but even before the amulet, he was not as weak as before.

Those provoking thoughts passed through him. If they were connected to the amulet and had he given it to Jak, then the process would repeat. The image of Jak writhing in pain shot through him, amulet in hand as purple coalesced throughout the olive skin. That was the last thing Damas wished for, to know- no, to see -such a pained expression ever laid upon that face. He wasn't there to protect Jak from those horrible things years ago, but he was here now as… _a fellow wastelander_. "There is one last thing, Jak."

The warrior before him turned, looking with those same blue eyes he'd seen the night before. His mar, grown up to be the warrior before him. Those blue eyes were a coincidence. Damas ushered himself away from the off-subject thought. Blue eyes were as common as any other color.

"The wasteland has become more dangerous than before. You have a good head on your shoulders, Jak. It makes me proud to know that you have stood at my side through it all." Damas announced, giving a weak smile to Jak.

"Yeah, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Daxter rolled his eyes at the sappy sight. "C'mon Jak, those marauders were expecting us at noon and yer makin' 'em wait."

Jak gave off a weak sigh of content. From a glance, even the ottsel seemed, more or less, excited at leaving as well. Cautious to show, but nevertheless eager to leave.

The metal was still cold under the king's thumb, as was the knowledge that Orphne would arrive sooner or later in his gut. The truth behind the ordeal stood before him with its two-foot tall fuzzy stature. He would be able to dismiss such delirious thoughts, and if Daxter were to stay behind and things turned for the worse, easily weasel his way out of the palace and find Jak.

Damas hesitated, clearing his throat uncomfortably as if he was encroaching on unknown territory, unprepared. "Daxter."

He was.

Shoulders visibly tensed as ears stiffened and became more alert, pushing up through the emerald roots. It would have made sense that Jak became aghast at anyone directly noticing the orange fur on his shoulders. There was a deep attachment between them, and it was reported that Daxter was Jak's weakness on and off the field. An Achilles' Heel that became a strength was good, but it was never something to play with.

"It is important that I have a word with you." Damas' expression attempted to soften, trying to convince the duo that there was no ill-intent behind recognizing Daxter. "You are under no obligation to stay and may freely go with Jak. If you would, it is in both our interests to stay."

Too direct.

"Huh? _Me_?" Daxter asked, pointing at himself. "You know I'm _not_ Jak, right?"

In return, a simple nod.

Damas looked as the blue eyes continued to gape at his request, apparently ignoring any words Daxter had spoken out. Had there been a tally of how many times he'd overstepped his bounds just in the past week, it may have outnumbered any amount of thoughts that frenzied in Jak's mind. How many of those thoughts centered around that word he spoke before did not ease Damas either.

He quietly sighed to himself. No matter how careful he was, avoiding the inevitable conversation with Jak about what that word meant to him, a situation even Jak was not prepared for, was daunting. There was no doubt the blonde believed his king was going to go prying into his past, using Daxter as some alternative route. To have little trust in your king, but then again Damas did not entirely trust himself after what transpired hours ago. It was also well-known that the teen furiously guarded his past, relating the complaints of wastelanders being swung at for even mentioning its existence.

Swallowing hard, Jak was unquestionably breathing deeper than normal. Daxter was sharply tugging at the long ear, with a last quick pull and a cocked half-smile ushering a slight blinking from the blonde. Those ears, once pulled back and shuttered under hair, perked up and twitched as furry lips mouthed something.

He may have been astute enough in the practice to know when someone swore under their breath at him, but Damas was not much of one for lip-reading. The ottsel was also the only one mouthing words, something along the lines of 'I got this, babe,' accompanied by a wink. Babe? Maybe he wasn't as good of a lip reader as he thought.

Watching on, Damas continued to observe the mute conversation in amazement. Jak had begun to slowly nod and, without announcing anything, Daxter patted down the green roots. There were more eye movements from Jak, slower this time, and for once the animal talked in a voice that was low and hushed, covered by the serenading water. After several seconds of silent agreement, and a slight rapping of a tiny, orange fist against Jak's goggles, they'd appeared to have settled on something. Jak raised his hand, elevating Daxter down from his shoulder to be returned with a salute from the ottsel, signifying his veteran going off to war.

"Ah, I take that you have decided to hear it out? Good," Damas began, fumbling in thought. The situation was unfortunately tense, and jutting eyes meant he would need something to ease it. A lie, something simple that would convince anyone that Daxter, a small, orange animal covered in fur, could do without raising alarm. "We seem to have a… kangarat infestation in one of our granaries. I ask for you to aid in where our leapers have failed and find where they breached through."

"As long as I don't find myself in a leaper's mouth, or one of yer plans includes kangarat seduction, I'll be fine," Daxter said, flicking his wrist behind him. "Now shoo, Jak. The adults are talking."

Jak eased up, from what Damas could only understand the acceptance of the lie. He pretended to be too fixated on Daxter to notice the emerald-blonde slowly regain his stance, moving towards the exit. As cords slung tautly, the pulley system marked that its occupant had reached the bottom of the palace.

They sat until Daxter broke the silence with a breathless chuckle. "Yer kangarat problems not real, is it?"

"There is without a doubt in any wastelander's mind that we have a kangarat problem. I'm sure a lie would calm him. Had it?" Damas inquired, hoping to show that he truly did have Jak's best interest at heart.

It did not go as expected.

"D'aww! You _do_ care about him!" Daxter gushed, taking a page out of Tess' book. "You all act tough, but yer just big lugs! What's next? Kleiver's got a—"

For the second time that day, Damas cleared his throat in an attempt to obstruct any images being painted of himself. With his mouth, there was little chance that Daxter wouldn't run around blurting out their king had a soft spot for Jak. Pray a leaper lizard mistakes him for a meal if it happens.

Getting up from his throne, Damas held himself up with his staff. "Walk, there is little time."

Daxter slanted his head at the order but reluctantly agreed after slight arguing about how the hard stone hurt his paws once Damas was already halfway through the throne room. The orange feet pattered in rugged steps behind the wastelander king, who was indiscernibly using up much of his energy to not appear debilitated.

They breached the curtains to the bedchamber before Damas turned, amulet in hand. He had hoped that his instincts were right, though at the same time he wished he would be proven wrong in some parts. It lurched at the back of his mind, the thought of someone taking away everything before he even knew the truth. "Do you know what this is?"

"Some brass doohickey on a chain?" Daxter glanced, over-dramatically catching his breath from the brisk walk. The sun glinted off the metal, illuminating oil strokes on the surface from a worried thumb. "No, no, lemme guess. Yer making another war amulet, but styling it for _me_? Y'want me to become a wastelander!"

"This amulet was given to me. I was asked to return it to someone, but they are not here now." Damas started, grabbing a large urn from the corner of the room affront a large banner. He pushed it out of the way, stone scraping against the rough floor. "You have been with Jak for quite some time?"

Daxter began to rub his chin in thought, further relaying information to himself by popping out his fingers and counting them methodically. After he got one hand counted, he moved to the other side and gave up. "They always said we stuck like glue on glue, but they also said that with trouble. Old Log-in-the-Head always said we're the 'Danger Duo.' Heh, among other things."

The Danger Duo. Damas hid a smirk, consensually pulling down the tattered banner. His little Mar had always been one to find himself in a knack for trouble, as had Damas when he was younger. That old 'sage' had a physical log on his head as well, though his theories on becoming a sage, a mere legend of the past, may have instituted that the log was his head. Or that he was high on eco fumes.

"Has that _always_ been there?" The ottsel asked, his wandering eyes now moving from the fluttering birds to the old bronze door that was sticking out against the drab stone.

"Old Log-in-the-Head," Damas laughed softly, gently folding the banner on his arm. "I knew a man of the very description long ago. His words were heavy with wisdom, though not as heavy as his cane."

"Yer telling me. If we had child protective services back then, they'd'a taken us away from that crazy sage. Well, 'til they saw _Jak_. Not a scratch on 'm that he didn't cause himself, the goodie-goodie. I swear my skin would'a been purple if green eco didn't heal bruises. I'd be looking like a lurker who found a razor."

Gripping onto the small slit in the corner of the door, Damas turned to the chatting ottsel behind him. Jak, a proclaimed 'goodie-goodie' was too good to be true. He may have taken orders like any warrior, but someone of such a description wouldn't be known to have thrown a slug at any off-setting glance from wastelanders, ex-KG or not. This Daxter was a proclaimed animal of comedy, but the similarities between his description of a sage and those of Samos, that old advisor, were discomforting. Even then, bruises wouldn't show through fur, and a hairless lurker was not a description that could have ever fit Daxter.

"Being two-feet tall and fuzzy wasn't always my forte, y'know?"

"Hmm?"

"You were thinking about how I used to be a human," Daxter admitted, getting closer to the king for a better look. "Got real good at reading people, and your face is an open book like his, Jak. Maybe rougher around the edges with more wear and tear, but that makes it more subtle."

"You can read people?" That would explain how he found out about the lie as fast as he had, and that he willingly accepted his Demand. It was perplexing to Damas to know that, all this time, Daxter had been reading the room and every interaction.

"I had to, Jak being mute and all. Got a lot of practice being his mouth, but that was for the best." Daxter said, exhaling deeply. "Never good with the spelling, and grunting wasn't something the villagers thought was funny for him to do. What with the lurkers and all."

So that Orphne hadn't lied after all. Damas slid the door down harshly from a muscle twinge. Reminding him of his current situation with another abrupt, painful shock. It was getting worse, and now that Daxter admitted to being able to read expressions he would no longer be able to hide it. "Come. It is down these stairs."

There was a very loud, audible sigh.

"Now look, your majesty. I'm all for going into dark places. Trust me, I am. But I got a kink in my back, and my legs hurt, and I think my feet are getting calloused," Daxter said, pulling his foot up to show meagerly tattered soles. "I'm not used to walking everywhere no more, and if I walk down those jagged steps my tail is going to get cut up. Jak's always there, letting me stand on his shoulder, y'know?"

"Indeed, they are quite rough. Keeping your tail off the ground in such a manner would work."

The ottsel's face lit up at the confirmation, readying itself to jump up on the plated shoulder. After making up for the increase in height between Damas and Jak, the king turned, blinking mercilessly.

"Then you would do best to hold it high."

* * *

The burly wastelander watched as Jak slugged his feet through the sand, kicking up small bursts of dust and gravel. The apparent lack of a talking orange aura was an odd sight, but what wasn't these last few days? That just meant it would be a quiet drive then, no snide remarks or quips about anything that wasn't mission related.

Hadn't Damas wanted Jak at his best? It was obvious he needed that extra set of eyes and ears from their previous altercation in Haven, and the slight hearing advantage was a benefit that sometimes outweighed the voice that came with it. And if Jak had some anxious feeling caused a churning in his gut, literally, or turned Dark, then Daxter would have been there to mozy on over and fix it as if it were nothing.

"Mornin' Cherry." The sun shone off the chromatic armor that Sig had cleaned earlier. Even in the wasteland, it paid off to have it shined up nice and spiffy. "Damas already gave me the rundown. Looks like it'll be just you and me."

Foot hoisted above the gas pedal and hand on the keys in the ignition, Sig was already seated in the Gila Stomper. He could see the anxious look on Jak's face, though whether it actually was because Daxter wasn't here, or the green-blonde figured out that he wouldn't be the one to take the wheel this time, wasn't his business. Besides, this wasn't something a little marauder hunting couldn't fix.

"Dax was asked to stay back."

Sig didn't question it. With Damas, asking was synonymous with demanding. Asking him to guard the door and miss the ceremony, but he wasn't all too fond of going to that anyhow. Asking him to take care of one of his cherries on a mission, that was simple enough and better than standing. Asking him to not let said cherry drive until after his recuperation though? Well, those were all imperatives that just meant do it, even if Sig didn't particularly agree with the last one.

"Nothin' to worry 'bout. Damas ain't like Kleiver when it comes to snacks." Sig twisted the keys to start the ignition after a light chuckle, ushering Jak to come in on the passenger side. "Got reports on a small group of marauders near those old ruins. Gotta flush 'em out."

By the time the engine started, Jak was already sitting next to him. There was a gun in his lap, goggles over his eyes, and a red scarf going up to cover an uneasy grin. It was hard to not notice the longing in his eyes, even with the glossy glass hiding it, which would have scared even Sig if he hadn't known better. Whatever happened at the palace must have agitated Jak to the extreme, and he got scary when he couldn't unload a few rounds to get his mind off whatever bothered him.

A nod was all Sig needed to know to go.

The metal gate opened, with the Gila Stomper roaring out, whipping up a small sandstorm behind it. His baby might not have been the fastest, but Sig knew it could get the job done. Easy driving too, but it didn't help his concentration when he saw Jak's attention dart to the wheel every few seconds.

After a few minutes of repetitive eye movements and continued silence, Sig decided that it wasn't a particularly gusty day. The overall lack of sand whirling in the air meant they could speak while driving in the open buggy without finding themselves with a mouth full of dry grit. Less action riling their surroundings after the marauders all but stopped ravaging the wasteland had helped as well.

"You okay, chili pepper?" Sig asked, only to find more silence.

Jak's attention now left the wheel, staring directly at his gun instead as fingers tapped at the metal. He pulled down his scarf, moving his goggles back up to their normal resting place. Jak looked more annoyed at being unable to do anything but think. "Just hoped I'd be driving."

"Tell ya what. Take out more than me and we'll see about letting you drive back." Sig said, keeping one hand on the wheel while adjusting his seat. "What Damas doesn't know won't hurt him, right?"

That should make the mission more interesting. Sig gave himself a hearty chuckle, noting how the words he had spoken had not gone ignored. Sure, Jak wasn't in top condition without Daxter, and the clear case of apprehension didn't help either, but that could easily be replaced with a little friendly competition. It wouldn't be much of a competition though. Sig knew he was only coming with to watch Jak and make sure the blonde didn't send himself flying back from his own gun like he had at the shooting range all those years ago.

And even if Jak wasn't ready to drive, the Gila Stomper was one tough puppy. Not as tough as Damas' tank turned buggy, but it could easily withstand anything Jak threw its way. Damas on the other hand? Well, Sig hoped it wouldn't turn out like the first car the king ever drove. Royalty and their lack of driving skills. Anyhow, there was no sense in rustling an agitated wumpbee nest by telling Damas that he let Jak drive, but it wouldn't be that hard to hide the impact of Jak's driving.

His gaze left the desert for a moment to look next to him, seeing the effects of his words. Jak was, well, excited. It was true that Jak mellowed out since the first time they met. The gun course had to stock up on civilian targets after Jak finished the first time, but now it took him half a second before he let out a flurry of shots, a much-needed improvement from pulling that trigger at the sight of any red shade. Sig had to admit there was a thrill in fighting, but that was different. He always wondered if Jak killed not only to survive but for the fun of it.

The uneasy feeling might still have been there, but Jak's grip continued to tighten on his gun. Even as he pulled the scarf back up, Sig knew there was an enthusiastic smirk on that face. Now that Jak was all riled up, those marauders wouldn't know what hit them.

It would be a twenty-minute drive, and even through all that reticent excitement radiating from the buggy, Sig couldn't get past the feeling of something serious bothering Jak. The dark-skinned wastelander's mouth opened, shutting after a quick thought. If the grip on the gun tightening wasn't enough to convince him to ask, then maybe the sporadic, disturbed tremors being added to Jak's pregame routine might.

He had planned on talking to Jak about what happened the day Daxter came running to him in the middle of the night yelling as if the city of stone was on fire. Maybe even berate Jak for doing something as stupid as not bringing his armor, but he'd stay Jak learned his lesson after seeing what happened and all the blood lost. If one of his cherries hadn't been clinging on for dear life, and the other just whimpering, then Sig knew he would have given Damas a piece of his mind for shooting at anything that moved.

The past was the past, and Jak was all better now. Hell, he was sitting right next to him, clutching his gun as if he was ready to go to war. Better those marauders at the end of that gun than him, but not even the marauders would think twice after seeing a wastelander stumble in thought while aiming.

"If somethin's bugging you, I'm all one eye and ears. Got a lot of sand to tread before we get there, and marauder attacks aren't like they used to be. Clear coasting, if you know what I mean."

Jak sat quietly, ears flickering as he registered what was said. His forehead furrowed pensively before he gave a quick look at Sig. They sat for several seconds further, the Gila Stomper moving past a jutting rock and an abnormally large cactus before Jak removed his scarf, lowering it down below his neck. "It's Damas. He's…"

"Yeah, he's hard to kill alright. Remind me to tell you how he took on the leader of the marauders in unarmed combat. Guy brought in a weapon, and Damas just laughed. He may have came out bloodied real bad, but you should've seen the other guy."

Teeth clenched the lip between them, gently gnawing as Jak waited for Sig to finish as confirmation to finish. "…my father."

The buggy almost slammed to a halt, spewing up a cloud of sand. Sig pressed hard on the wheel to stop the kickback, but Jak was caught unaware, being sent at the dashboard. Swearing under his breath, Jak slunk down in the seat, trying to relieve himself of the unexpected pain of being thrown at metal by a massaging hand. After a sharp glance from the blonde, dazed from the sudden impact, Sig hit the gas again, making sure his movement hadn't stammered onto the brakes instead.

"Sorry 'bout that. Had me scared for a second there," Sig gave a weak chuckle as he saw Jak continue to rub his forehead. "I thought you just said Damas was your father."

After the pain of being flung subsided, Jak pushed the goggles up, pulling back his hair to openly stare Sig in the eye.

"Shit. You really think that?" The wastelander was given a gruff glance from the blonde in return.

This was Jak he was talking to, not Daxter. Jak didn't joke, and any topics that involved Damas were always straight to the point with him. Sig, much like Jak, swore under his breath at the realization. Jak was anxious because someone planted the idea in his head that Damas was his father. The last time he'd seen Damas' son, the boy was only six, turning seven. Even then, he was small for his size, just not Jak small.

"Well, I'm not going to say otherwise but, ah, now look. Damas likes you, more than he wants to admit. Hell, everyone likes you. But if you want him to not like you, then bring up his kid. Almost sacked me the last time I brought it up, so you better not even think about touching that with a ten-foot peacemaker if you know what's good for you."

Sig quietly sighed to himself. It was stupid for Jak to think he could have been Damas' son unless there was some unmentioned love affair two decades ago that was never explained. That would have been bad news for any heir of Mar, let alone any Haven royal. Illegitimate heirs were a nasty business in Haven, and Damas' hadn't been in the wasteland long enough to accept that type of lifestyle of survival over love.

But this was Jak he was talking to! The boy who never knew how to lie for his own good, despite being given so many opportunities for even little white ones. Too honest for that, and by the look of it, he really believed it. That meant that, well it was just…

"Look, you're a good kid, Jak. But you're not Damas' kid," Sig said, moving one hand off the wheel to now cushion itself against the backrest of his seat. His face turned quizzical, "was that why I found you lying deader than a metal head? 'Cause you got some wild crazy idea in your head that you were Damas' son?" You need real, hard evidence to even think that!"

They were almost there now, rushing past the scattered cacti or occasional rock. There still weren't any marauders chasing them, but that didn't mean tensions weren't high. It didn't feel right to not be trailblazing through the wasteland followed by an army, just an upset wastelander next to him.

Teeth returned to gently gnaw on the chapped, bottom lip. "At the bar, when Daxter told you about the rift gate. For once, he wasn't lying."

"Rift gates, huh?" Sig questioned. Time travel, wasn't it? There was no doubt the ottsel was almost inebriated after a couple of drink, but now that Jak mentioned it his stories did seem to be more factual afterward. Not entirely truthful, but who ever was? "Let's say I believe you. Damas sure as hell won't with that bedtime story you'll be reading him and will just think you're doing this because you didn't grow up with a father."

"You don't," Jak said straightforwardly. "You're right, drop it. I wouldn't either."

"Now don't be like that, Jak," Sig said, taken back quite a bit. Sure, he didn't believe it, but it would still have been nice to know what Jak was thinking to have even gotten to that point. If it did exist, time travel could explain a lot of things, but what did that even have to do with Damas' kid?

A fabric-clad arm pressed out, pointing to the ruins a distance away. "Stop early, we can scout on foot. Get the mission done and head back, right?"

As well tempered as Damas, that was for sure. But, just to feed the notion of insanity so it didn't starve, Jak was somehow Damas' son, then what was he doing in the past? Sure, Sig remembered telling Damas that Jak really did act like a younger version of him, even asking whether there were others he wasn't too proud of talking about back in his glory days. There was the green hair, the blue eyes, and even the blonde fading in the back just like Mar's mother. Just coincidences, like how some of the monks can channel light eco too.

Tires skidded to a halt, but now both wastelanders were prepared to not be thrown forward like before. They arrived outside of the ruins, deciding to leave the bugger further away to not alert their targets as Jak had said. Sig grabbed his modified peacemaker from the back, slinging it over his shoulder as he watched Jak jump from the buggy. The blonde looked at his surroundings more clearly now that his mind wasn't running off on him.

By the time Sig had given the rocky outcrops a good one-two, Jak had already trailed off. He shook his head and followed, but there weren't any signs of marauders. Once he traded past the open corral, nearing large rock formations that jutted out of the desert sands, he had seen what Jak originally ran off to. It may have been difficult to see in the daylight, but once he reached Jak he could see the small clouds of white smoke billowing up past the outcrops.

Jak cocked his gun.

Marauders.

As Sig reached his hand out to grab Jak's shoulder, it fell on open air. He watched as the teen sprinted forward, forgetting that running ruins every conservation of water principle the wasteland heavily imprinted into many others. Not even marauders were dumb enough to use a fire in such a visible area. Desert nights may have been cold, but wood was too valuable to waste.

"Great," Sig muttered to himself. All he could do was watch as Jak ran into the obvious trap. A signal fire that may have been to lit to alert an army.

Jak immediately rolled to view behind the rocks, gun aimed at the open center of the desert, but he froze with his finger on the trigger. Once the large wastelander caught up seconds after, Sig had forgotten all about telling Jak to not let his excitement get to him.

There was blood and lots of it.

It looked like Jak's work in the arena, but this wasn't fresh. The marauders were here, and there, and, well, even in the crevices of the rocks. The blood had already caked on the sand, leaving an ashy, carmine draped around the area.

"Something must have gotten to 'em before we did," Sig stated, pushing over a detached arm with the butt of his peacemaker. From the looks of it, torn off, not cut.

"Metal heads?" Jak asked, examining the bodies. There was no doubt these were, at one point, marauders. The remains of their vehicle had been abandoned several yards away, with the metal frame smashed in, done after the massacre by the signs of blood without bodies.

"Nah, they're cleaner than this. Looks like whatever it was got real angry, looking for something." The peacemaker pointed at the remnants of what looked like storage crates and bags, its contents were strewn throughout the sand. Metal heads weren't smart enough to do anything other than kill without a leader, and this was too bloody for a marauder mutiny over some artifact.

Something else had done this.

Whatever it was, the ample searching had concluded it wasn't here anymore. The trail ended at the ravaged buggy, and the blood patterns didn't signify anything either of them had recognized before.

Sig clenched his teeth hard. Damas would want to hear about this but going after Jak caused him to forget his telecommunicator back at the Gila. "You stay here and look for anything we can take back. I'll swing around with the buggy."

Jak nodded mechanically at Sig's order, brushing tattered leather from the sack with his foot.

It was a walk, but the Gila Stomper was still in view. The desert heat must have really been getting to him too. As Sig turned around, watching the blonde observe the wreckage site, he swore he saw Mar for a second there right when Jak tripped over something. The blonde had looked around to see if anyone saw, but Sig had the common decency to turn around immediately and hold in the laugh for a few seconds. A nice change from the serious nature before.

It must have been the heat. Sig shrugged it off immediately. Just because Mar always tripped over his own two feet, and Jak did it once, didn't mean anything. But sometimes, Jak really did act like a younger version of Damas.

After a quick search, there were no hiding creatures or metal bugs on the Gila, something Sig smiled at. Pesky things always tried tearing up the engine when they got the chance. As Sig closed the hood, a loud shot deafened in his ears. Atop a large rock, eyeing the blonde that was a distance away, was what had made mincemeat out of the marauders.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, this was an awkward chapter, but I think everyone was in character or at least not too OOC? Anyways, chapter 5 is also going to be awkward because *spoilers* and has an anticlimactic scene at the end that involves *spoilers*. So yeah, be ready for that.

This story is labeled "adventure" and the only thing we've been adventuring into is Damas' insanity, Sig existing and messing up something with a whole lot of chuckling, my attempt at keeping Daxter in character, and some Orphne person that was only mentioned like once. Also, Jak is there, and he's really nervous because this is the first chance that he's ever actually had a real father, but neither of them knows how to face it. Maybe "tragedy" or "angst" will work, but then who knows? It'll mellow out sooner or later with a happy ending, right? Right?


	5. Chapter 5 - Confidence

**\- Chapter 5 - Confidence -**

Albeit short, there was quite a large amount of complaining and independent arguing coming from the ottsel at every jagged step on the decrepit staircase. After what seemed like the longest minute, with Daxter forgetting how much of that time spent observing Damas' free hand pinched at the bridge of his nose to control his tongue, they neared a faint, glowing red. He guessed the king was clearly not the one for stairs either, but they had made it to the bottom relatively unscathed.

Torches were lit even before they entered the room, though a lack of dust swirling through the air meant that it had seen little use throughout the ages. If anything, the room looked more for storage than having any other importance, though the varieties of speckled lights sprinkling from an assortment of urns had pointed otherwise.

By the time Daxter begrudgingly made his way down the steps, a rough scraping greeted his ears as Damas had already begun dragging a stone bowl through the room. Blue eyes beamed through in amazement, remembering the times of when such colors flowed freely throughout the world. "Whoa! What _is_ this place?"

"One quiet enough to proceed," Damas answered, pulling out an elongated, glassy knife from its sheath. The black glinted off the red lights now present on the walls, flashing as he turned to Daxter, blade hanging low in his grasp. "The thick walls should prevent anyone outside from hearing us."

"I-I know I talk more than the average Joe, and I might'a complained part of the way here, but y'don't gotta _kill_ me over it! C'mon, y'know I was only joking about your shoulder an-and the steps!" Daxter squeaked out, recoiling from Damas until his back met cold stone. He raised his hands in his own defense to the king a mere foot away holding the obsidian blade. "And think about Jak! He wouldn't be able to live without me!"

"I _am_ thinking of him."

Daxter opened his eyes at the remark, watching as Damas moved the blade away. A black drop fell from the tip, squandering away in the cracks between the rocks. The blade moved, as had the bleeding hand, now hovering it over the bowl before he hastily grabbed a chair.

"I am doing this exactly for Jak."

"Sometimes, I really want a normal day for _once_ with you people. Cutting your hand open for something that _clearly_ is not blood to come out just to have me give a blind audition for the unannounced movie 'Ottsel Heart Attack - Seven-Thousand and Forty-One.' Oh, and to top it all off, you say it's for _Jak_?" Daxter let out, now slumped against the wall, catching his own heartbeat as it considerably slowed down to ottsel-safe levels, only to watch even more black ooze out of the king's hand. "Did I mention how I _really_ want a normal day?"

"One would agree, as this is all but normal," Damas grunted out, returning his dagger to its sheath as Daxter's heart returned to its normal rhythm. The king began to massage his arm, directing more of the black substance to flow freely and collect in the bowl. "I hear talking is what you do best. That would most certainly ease this process.

Freely observing his situation without fear, Daxter blinked. Damas brought him down to what looked like sudden death in the event of a tremor just to talk? Blinking again, with a king patiently staring at him, a terribly unconvincing face of apathy painted on as if there was something it was trying to hide.

Once again, he found himself using a soothing practice of breathing through his nostrils and out his mouth, something instilled in him by force to control himself. Easy, light breathing. Yeah, Damas just wanted him down here for a chat, talking between two men about battles or whatever wastelanders actively did for fun that didn't involve sand. Just a simple talk between Orange Lightning, feller of foes, wooer of attractive women, destroyer of all evil-ness, and there was no alcohol.

Well, Daxter didn't need a drink to do this, just his mind.

Yeah, he could do this. He'd been in countless actual battles! Gol and Maia, who were defeated by light eco, the rarest and most difficult eco to channel. Or the dark makers and Errol. Without said light eco they probably would have won too, and… there was also Kor! That was a good story, and, well, he'd told that one countless times so what was different know? That brings up the fact that there was a certain someone being sent back into the past, or how the metal head leader admitted to Jak being Damas' son.

Clearing his mind, Daxter stopped his breathing technique. He couldn't prance around the information Damas had come for like a pixie high on dust, but that didn't mean he couldn't ease the thought, carry it a little. As long as he didn't cause panic, then Jak could swoop in and woo Damas over with his Mar-like characteristics, such as being Mar. That could work, right? Reverse psychology, make him do the thinking himself. That'll do it.

The king's face grew less apathetic and more pensive as time went on as if he caught wind of what was going through his mind. To put it lightly, Daxter gulping had been double-checked as needing to step around said topic without having that blade come in his vicinity again. "Look, your kingliness. You wanted to hear about Jak's past, which in no way yer going to hear from me, only him. If Jak finds out I told you _anything_ , then I'll end up with a new form of emotional trauma that'll put the rest to shame."

"I…No. I believe, however, that he is inconspicuously involved with the matter," Damas said, tuning heavy, the luster of his eyes was brought out by the dim light the torches offered. "But, it is only his concern to what he has done in his life."

"Are you _kidding_ me?!" Daxter exploded throwing his hands into the air before pressing them below his goggles, not returning to the gentle breathing techniques of before. "You had us both worked up over nothing? I mean, sheesh! He'd been scared all night, then you went and did it by asking me to stay back! Jak doesn't like snoops or sneaking, and he sure don't like those cahooting with his past."

"I had no intention of doing such a thing," Damas said flatly, cracking his shoulder to release the weariness from hovering his hand over the bowl. "Sneaking has never been something I have been good at."

Calming down from the sudden outburst, he figured they would be there for a while. After not seeing a single soft surface anywhere in the room, Daxter sprawled himself out on the floor. If he was going to stay there, might as well make himself comfortable, or at least not further mess up his back by sitting. "Yeah, Jak's not either. Can you believe he blew our cover, _literally_ , by sneezing? Right when we were spying on the Baron himself, too! Even triggered a few alarms with those size twenty stompers of his."

"You? Spying on Praxis?" Damas gave a light chuckle. "Was this from your plan in overthrowing him?"

"We're certified members of Haven's Underground, baby! We were their specialists, their A-Team, their first responders to anything and everything with a high chance of death and dying. Last time I let Jak take the lead, too. Couldn't even control his giddy self the moment he heard 'mission' come outta Dreadlock's mouth. The other words must'a just passed right over his head and got caught in his hair. That, or he thought 'suicide' meant the others were going to kill themselves the moment they saw him."

The thick, dark blood continued to seep from Damas' wounds, giving off a faint glow as it deposited into a pile of viscous goo. It sparked violently, raising purple embers as it dripped into the dark concentration at the center of the bowl.

"Yes, a gesture suited best for his nature," Damas said uncannily and proud, continuing to massage down his arm. More released from his hand, pursing his lips as it coalesced with the rest. "I knew, the moment I sent him back into the wasteland, that he put the lives of others before his. Strength on behalf of others surpasses that of any one's might, after all."

"He's got a bad habit of doing that. Only been here for four years, and in that time he'd already become death's pen-pal." Daxter placed his hands over his eyes, pulling down fur with leather gloves. "You ask _how_ they show him they're grateful for him risking his life? Just another mission through the sewers. Do you _know_ how long it takes to get sewage outta fur when Jak takes an impromptu bath down there? Even after showering, he still smells worse than Boggy Swamp, and let me tell you he does not know how to wash behind the ears."

"You have only been in Haven for four years?"

"Just passing through. Saw the sights, the attractions, and stayed for the fireworks. Oh, and the war. Those Praxis-pops were to die for, as the guy who sold them did. Always thought blowing the popsicle stand was a figure of speech."

The sound of a single drip faltered as it clashed against the liquid surface. Red and blue wafted from their urns, swirling through the yellow and white.

"That is quite odd," Damas said musingly. "I, for one, had been under the impression that Haven had barred her walls to any newcomers. You must have managed to fall out of the sky and survived, an inane notation to say the least."

"Cushioned seats don't come complimentary with fiery death drops. Zero outta five stars, would not time travel—" Daxter caught himself, forcing his hands over his mouth to think about what he was going to say for once. He looked at the king, whose attention was still preoccupied with his matter at hand. "—would not take the air train again. Can you believe they shot it down? With us in it, too!"

"I can. To affirm his power, that Praxis would amount to anything."

As if one close call wasn't enough, Daxter had put himself in a second. He sighed, observing how Damas had not apparently noticed the slip-up. The face was as apathetic as before, staring down at the black-violet crackles beneath his grasp, being the only thing the king paid attention to.

"Daxter."

That close call was apparently spot on. Daxter moved up, alarmed at his name being said without obstruction of emotion. No anger behind it, as usual to someone who was given a mediocre or mocking name, or even out of contrition, but that was more in his head from once everyone who had done the first found out he was a god. It was just flat. "You called?"

"Your missions. They took you throughout the city," Damas began. The blood began to seep faster, sending another violent shock from the twisting swill beneath him. "Everything Praxis had done to it. You've seen it all?"

"If you could call it a city. More like a labyrinth of terrible drivers going the speed limit, or at least to Jak it is. If they were lookin' for a two-foot tall Haven City tour guide, you'd be ogling the most qualified guy."

"Did you…" Damas paused, his hand no longer motioning movement of fluids from his palm in soft, concentrated patterns along his forearm. "Did you happen to see a young boy, with green hair?"

* * *

The gloved hand ran through the emerald-blonde hair, pulling up sweat from the green roots. Jak didn't remember the wasteland being this hot, and the sun beating down mercilessly did not help either. If the Precursors were still here and felt benevolent, then they'd let it rain in this wasteland. This godforsaken place hadn't seen rain, let alone a cloud, in years. That was apparently how it was going to stay.

Reaching down, he unhooked the flask from his belt as the large wastelander sauntered off to grab the buggy a distance away. A swathe of water dribbled down as Jak drank, capping with a tight twist to put the flask back afterward. The desert air may have been a pleasant change from that of Haven, but its smoldering respite was not.

Back to searching, sifting through sands that sifted themselves every other minute. It didn't help looking for whatever was left after the slaughter whenever he found a thumb or a foot. Extra points for a head, and a discouraging look from Sig once he returned. Daxter was the humor type.

Not even marauders deserved a death like this. Slash marks, just like what happened in the arena. What looked like a bite mark crunched down into one, and a claw had been left snagged in a rock, too plain to stand out from anything. Ruthless slaughter, senseless even. Out of rage, not reason unless that reason was some sick sense of fun. Even when he lost control, ripping apart everything, it was out of defense, not this.

Gathering the small bits of metal that fell, Jak grabbed at a chunk hoping that a larger piece was buried. Teeth rubbed the cracked lower lip as it turned out the shiny, orange-metal was just the handle of a blade. It was great knowing that whatever did this broke a marauder scimitar with ease, as his back a month ago wasn't calloused enough to do that already.

Walking past the corpses that were strewn about, Jak sighed. Daxter was always there to help him forget about seeing this kind of stuff, which was especially helpful when it was he who had done it. It was hard to joke with yourself, and his fuzzy, little (don't say little, he doesn't like being called little) companion made it so easy. Even if he hadn't done all this, which Jak had to remind himself that something else had, Daxter would have made a joke about some new dark eco power allowed for super speed or telepathic mutilation.

The walk was brisk.

The blonde's foot snagged something, sending him straight into the sand. He looked up, alert. Nothing was attacking him, and Sig wasn't around to see that. Rubbing the sand out of his goatee and hair, Jak picked up his gun before noticing the small gleam shining off a protruding metal handle behind him.

An artifact?

Jak pushed the sand from around it, feeling his way under before pulling it out.

A box.

A _Precursor_ box.

He tripped over a small, Precursor box in the middle of the desert. The audience of six stayed silent.

Well, it wasn't something to brag about, but it may have value. Coming back empty-handed was never good, and coincided with starvation, even if you weren't asked to retrieve anything. Damas asked for information, but that six marauders were slaughtered at the hands of something wasn't much to call home about, especially since the wasteland is filled with everything that did those kinds of things for fun, just like Damas' own son.

And he was back to thinking about Damas and the whole father-son thing.

The heat was getting to him, and as such he relocated to an outcrop that offered ample protection from the sun. There was no point in thinking about any of that. Daxter would do something and save the day like he always proclaimed to be able to do, and it would just work. Then there was the lurker ceremony, which would be solid evidence as to it.

Back pressed against the cool, shaded rock, Jak stared at the artifact to take his mind off the other topic. Was there something in it? The last time he'd shaken an artifact, it ended up with a loss of 3 feet and a new full set of fur for Daxter. There hadn't seemed anyway to open it, no matter how much fumbling went on. Those intricate engravings may have meant something, as could the small basin in the center. It was smooth, except for a very small hole. That's how you were supposed to open it?

Unhooking the flask once again, Jak took another greedy swig out of his flask. He swirled it around his mouth, a wastelander trick Sig had taught him for water conservation and to fight dry mouth. Placing the cap on, he put his hand around it, ready to tighten.

A drop fell on Jak's forehead, stopping his movement. Rain in the desert? He reached up, smearing a thick fluid onto his fingers, stretching it between them. This was not the consistency of water.

Another sudden drop caused him to look up. Eyes opened wide at the white teeth that were glaring him down.

He rolled as the figure crashed into the sand, missing him and instead tearing at a corpse out of frustration. Jak readied his blaster, aiming at the monster's jaw as it spat out the marauder. Pulling the trigger was never easier, unleashing a yellow burst that snapped a large tusk off with a crack.

The beast hulked over, ignoring the yellowed-tusk that fell from its body. The shot hadn't done much other than get it angry. It lunged in retaliation, only to find a fury of blue shots littering its path coming from the gun. It doubled over slightly, a deep purple spilling from the wounds, only to get up once again.

Back to the blaster, Jak thought, switching out the cartridges as he took shelter behind a pointed rock. He had found out what killed those marauders, and now it was conveniently trying to kill him. Sig wouldn't let him drive back without taking out something.

A shot let out again, this time hitting between the large, white spikes. A nuisance at best. Ignoring the flurry of wounds, the black mass continued charging at Jak with a more concerning speed.

Now a ring of shots, yet still nothing. Every blast created a hole, going through but the creature just acted as if it were nothing. By the time Jak switched to his scatter mod, the beast had pinned him to the rock. Yellow eyes gazed down hungrily, two sets of razor teeth reaching closer to their target.

The Precursor box fit squarely into the monster's mouth, which was the only thing Jak could think of doing just to save himself a few seconds to gather his marbles. It was spit out, confirming that it wasn't a bomb as it smashed into the sand as he jumped back and pressed on his gun.

It lunged, only to find the morph gun in its target's place. Lodged in the monster's mouth, the morph gun sent out a red shock wave as the trigger released. The beast fell dead with a heavy thump, large arms that once pinned Jak were laid out, deadened into the sand.

Thankfully, there was no aftershock or explosion. Jak examined his dead assailant, flatly gazing at the purple-tinged skin filled with protruding large thorns. Black, club-like hands. primed with sharp claws that spread out into the sand, one tusk laying a stone throw away with the other still attached before a large, central horn. Propping the head up, he had found that, by the shreds of metal and fabric caught in the teeth, this must have been what killed the marauders.

It may have been the heat talking, but it looked familiar.

Exposed fingers instinctively approached the corpse. He had fought one of these before, years ago. Not one, but many. They weren't natural, made out of-

Purple bolts shot violently from the corpse, tearing at his flesh. It was dark eco. Heavily concentrated, just like it had been all those years ago. It was inviting, even through the pain. The touch was frigid, a tempting sensation in the desert.

Sand whisked up by Sig's Gila Stomper threw Jak back, startled by the sudden arrival. He looked down at his hand, pulling back as he saw the ripped glove. Another ruined pair, as if Daxter wasn't happy enough as it was.

"You fine, chili pepper? Saw that beast jump at you and put it in turbo."

"I… Yeah, fine," Jak said, putting his hand away. He looked at the tall wastelander jumping from the buggy, taking the hand to pull himself up.

"Man, that is one ugly metal head," Sig smirked, pushing up the head with the butt of his peacemaker. "You got its skull gem already?"

Looking back at the monster, Jak rubbed his head. "It didn't have one."

"Ain't a metal head, huh?" Sig took off his helmet, rubbing the sweat off his forehead. "Ain't like anything I've seen before."

Silos. A deep pool of dark eco. Ancient Precursor robots. The fight to save the world. "A lurker…?"

"Like that Brutter guy who paid Krew?" Sig asked, raising his eyebrow in confusion. "Never heard of a lurker looking like a jacked-up purple cactus, and those teeth weren't friendly neither."

It couldn't have been. Samos went on about how there never were any notes in the citadel that had shown how those lurkers formed, and that they must have gone with Gol and Maia into the silo. That, and this was stronger, and larger, than the ones before. Someone else has been experimenting with dark eco.

"Anything on them?" Sig asked, looking around at the bodies.

Quickly forgetting about the past, Jak paced back to where the box had been spat out. "Found this."

"Some cube with a handle? That's all these marauders had on 'em? Well, that thing must have been after it. Caught 'em by surprise. Put it in back, and get in."

"I think you're forgetting something," Jak grinned, ignoring the past encounter entirely. He put his hand up, palm open. "Keys?"

"Well, I would, but you didn't follow the most basic of wastelander principals." Sig chuckled. The look left Jak's face, replaced with a slightly ajar mouth open in confusion. The peacemaker lifted, sending out a bolt of jutting lightning at the corpse, sending it flying in small pieces from the impact. "Can't be sure it's dead unless you killed it yourself. Even then, shoot it again just to be sure."

The mouth dropped at the realization that he wouldn't be driving until the keys hit him square in the chest. Jak picked them up, staring at Sig who was now walking towards the passenger side of the Gila.

"Like I said: another thing Damas won't need to know about."

* * *

"See? I'm on his shoulder every day!"

"I…forget I asked such a thing. As of late, I have not been myself, stammering through old memories," Damas grinned lightly, attempting to defuse his situation. "Undeniably, it has been a rough week, and at this point, it feels as if I were willing to believe anything. Had time travel been instigated I would be none the wiser."

It was as fruitless as sending Sig to Haven, and adding the seal would have only confused Daxter. A mocking sense of hope coming from the dark eco poisoning, a side effect caught in his throat. Damas knew it was too good to be true that someone had seen his little Mar, who, with what he wished hadn't resonated within him, had met his untimely fate somewhere in that forsaken city. A gun, disease, starvation, or staring down the teeth of a metal head…

"Funny thing 'cause… uh… well, ya see…" Daxter hesitated, twiddling with his paws. "Time travel kinda, sorta, maybe exists and I am from the past."

Damas leered at Daxter. That was supposed to be a poor attempt at a joke, not actually something he had wanted to hear as a response. It was like those stories his father told him of the mythical Mar, a time traveler that changed the past to create this world. Not only that but his own ancestor. It was so ridiculous that even he had to laugh.

"I'm not joking, your kingliness," Daxter protested. He sat up, looking at Damas as sternly and resolutely as a fuzzy ottsel could. "I know it sounds crazy, but you did just say you'd believe anything. You'd go mad if you hear it from anyone else."

The king calmed down, noting the serious tone from the usually jovial ottsel. He didn't seem to be joking, even if it did seem like one. Mar was gone, light eco had saved him from death, and then your strongest warrior claims himself as your son seconds after falling at the end of your own gun. Even if it was some farce, it was good to take your mind off such trivial matters. "You're right. Like those of the great Mar, I had always thought time travel as a thing of legend."

"I guess you could say we're legends. Took out a loony dark eco sage and his deranged sis 'n saved the world. Then Kor, and now Errol and them dark makers. Mar doesn't have much on us."

It was ridiculous, but Damas had agreed to listen to it. Dark eco poisoning or not, it was difficult to believe such existed, especially that someone such as Daxter could have done feats as great as those. A sage, let alone one that could freely manipulate dark eco, and then time travel, two of the most incredulous things. He did believe he was going mad at one point, but his mind was clearing as the blood dissipated to the looming pool below his hand.

Daxter, overcome by boredom and a crawling sense of curiosity with the lack of talking over his past words, moved. He peered into the bowl, watching as the purple flickered and spat out violently. "Is that—"

There was one thing biting the king. An ottsel, the size of any rodent, taking on someone who could control one of the strongest elements in the world, was something of a fairy tale. "You said "us.'"

"Huh?" Daxter shifted, looking up at Damas, whose eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"You also said 'we're' legends. You were not alone in your affairs?" Damas now cocked an eyebrow at Daxter, who had caught on to where he was going. That meant he heard him right, that Daxter had been accompanied by someone to fight that supposed dark eco sage. If one existed, it may have taken a companion, let alone an army, to take one on.

"I was getting to that. You see, well, there was a kid."

"A kid?"

"Yeah, the Underground took a real liking to him. Had some big plans and wanted to use him. Young Greeny, or, well, Samos, went with the kid to the past to fulfill some prophesy the Precursors made. Cliché, but y'know how gods can be with their mystic mumbo-jumbo."

"Samos?" Damas blinked, though the massage had become more aggressive this time at hearing the name, and where the owner of that name had gone. The arm had now been rubbed raw by how stiff the massaging became. "A child was sent to the past with that abusive eco-fanatic to fulfill a prophecy? I had heard you were good at storytelling from reports at the local tavern, but this is extraordinary."

"That kid, they didn't just pick him up off the streets. Well, they did, but he wasn't a nobody." Daxter was back to twiddling with his paws, nervously fumbling with the wrist strap of his glove. "He was _Jak_."

"Then I had sent Sig with…?"

"Jak," Daxter stammered.

That was a turn in the story that he had not expected. "The token the Underground searched for, that boy was Jak? After those suicide missions, you expect me to believe that Jak was sent to the past with an old man?"

There was no liquor served in the basement of the palace, and as such Damas interpreted the silence as a chance for the ottsel to fix his story. This must have been where the confusing parts of the reports came from. Twenty metal heads doubled to forty, or the size of them tripled. Either way, sending any boy with that ramshackle of a sage was certainly a suicide mission in and of itself.

"His name wasn't Jak. It was…" A long pause as fuzzy paws fumbled and shifted through each other. Daxter looked sheepishly at Damas, who was silently awaiting a plausible answer to the puzzling response, before speaking in a quiet murmur. "Mar."

 _Mar._

"Are you trying to upset me?" Damas indignantly huffed. Throwing the name of his dead son into the tale as if he were nothing. The name has already been disgraced, as if a heart couldn't be broken more than once, the ottsel dared to bring the name of the deceased so abruptly without remorse. "Your storytelling was enjoyable, yet now you have the nerve to mock—"

Daxter stifled out an 'I'm not!' before running back on a very thin tangent in his defense. "Jak'll tell you the same! And if you think he's doing it to protect himself, ask the Underground. Old Greeny was there too, and, well, you don't know Keira, but she can vouch. Even Ashelin or Torn, and they sent Jak on those death missions."

"Am I to believe them as well?" Damas scoffed. "What was stopping them from outright killing this Mar after they were done with him? They used him to further their goals, but who was there to protect him?"

Nails dug into Damas' arm as he combated his thoughts, waiting for the answer to who was protecting his son. As if anyone in Haven could be trusted, and now those who aimed to use him had chosen his Mar instead. It was for the stone, sending a child through the trials. Even Ashelin must have known, sitting back and watching. Just waiting for her rise to power, all because of—

"Jak."

Tension freed from his shoulders as Damas eased up at hearing Jak. His jerky, deep breathing was calmly brought back to his regular, though not entirely hiding his rage that Daxter had thrown his departed son in his fairy tale. Even if it was a story, an all too real one at that, it felt good to know someone who could be trusted was protecting his Mar.

"Don't tell him I said anything, but Jak's a big softie for him. Dreadlocks would'a wet his pants if Jak found out he'd sent someone else to escort the kid," Daxter said openly, placing his hand reassuringly on Damas' knee. Touching the king was unadvised, and after telling such a tale was something only Pecker would counsel to Daxter. "Trust me, there's no place safer in all of Haven than with Jak. And It'd definitely hurt his tough guy rep if anyone saw him passed out with the kid asleep in his lap. "

Yes, that was true. Sig had told him about Jak's escapades in Haven, even ones where he intervened to save others who had done him wrong. A child that had done nothing would have received the best protection; a personal body-guard that cared about his protectee.

"And this Mar." Damas started, moving the furry hand from his lap. "Was he hurt? They had treated him well?"

"Only one in the city that wasn't. Treated like a prince, even in the Underground," Daxter said as softly as he could, staring at Damas' hand. The black had stopped flowing, and now a bright stream of red cascaded from the king's fingers. "You might want'a do something about that."

"I-continue. With your story. From the time travel, with this Mar and the old sage," Damas deflected, looking to his current situation. He sat up, pushing the container of dark liquid away. After tightening his hand, he stretched out the open palm as if the skin had never been cut.

"Well, they find themselves in a pretty alright place. Wouldn't get five stars on any travel site, but what can you do? _Real_ sandy, but it has nothing on this place. The villagers loved him too, but man did he make them rethink that with all the trouble he got in. That old Farmer Zeb almost had a heart attack once he woke up to all his yakows fluffed up from blue eco shock."

"This Mar's childhood. It was good?" Damas asked in a low tone. He turned his back to Daxter for a large urn, flickering white specks frothing from the top that wisped in the air around him. A single, fluid drop echoed as it coalesced among the lurid glow. "Was he with ones that treated him as if he were a son?"

The story was getting to him. It was the dark eco, it messes with emotions and memories. He just needs light eco to counteract it, then everything would return to normal.

"He had an uncle. Well, not really an uncle but some old adventurer who traveled to distant lands looking for Precursor junk and history. You have to give him credit, being the only one in the village who could keep Mar entertained. It got him out of trouble, but if you ask me most of those stories were hiphog-wash."

Hands delved into the glowing light, surging into Damas' body. The pain subsided, replaced by a soothing prickle. The story was too clear-cut as if it was fact. This was Jak's story.

"That's not all," Daxter included. "He was also the wingman of a _devilishly_ handsome man. Don't remember his name, should find it in any history book, but Mar became his sidekick. There was also a girl he had the hots for, but that's another story."

It wasn't working.

"That is good." It was hard to choke back emotions, even for a man such as him with the powers of light eco on his side. Resolute and unfeeling. It was just a story. Even if it was one that Damas desperately wanted - no, needed - to believe.

Gripping the edges of the urn fervently, ironing those two words down to push back a sudden rupture of emotion. It wasn't befitting of a king to quiver at hearing something such as that without an ounce of truth. Even the light eco wasn't preventing his emotions from getting the best of him, offering its wise advice to him for years. It saved truth from the darkness of one's mind, but why wasn't it clearing his of such thoughts?

Dark eco was truly powerful and must affect his thinking. It was the opposite of light, clearing the mind of delusion, and was the reason for his fervid thoughts.

Yes, it had to be. He'd never believe such a fairy tale told by an ottsel that claims to have once been human. He wouldn't believe that his little Mar ran through warm sands without fear, crashing waves bowing at his feet. Or that his son had managed to grow up to be a warrior worthy of the name of Mar, just like his ancestors had worn proudly. Managing to defeat a dark eco sage – not just that, but the leader of the metal heads, and those dark makers, destined to end the world.

"The ones that make you question the unbelievable. Those are the best stories," Damas lamented in surmission. His Mar, growing up in a world much kinder than this, and that maybe, though as ludicrous as it was, just maybe his son was still here, just older. It was something this world was not benevolent enough to give. "How does this Mar's story end?"

"That's for you to decide, but I think you already know."

Maybe the amulet was still giving off its feigning presence. Damas smirked, stature moving back as he left the urn. "An ambiguous end. I see how you earned such a revered title in Spargus."

"A title?" puzzled Daxter as he began to rub his chin, running through a list of names he remembered, or made up, being called in Spargus. "So, like—"

"The Rat Bard."

"Oh yeah, 'cause I'm so good at— the _what_?! The _Rat_ Bard?! Ooh-oh, I am so going to make Jak give them a piece of my mind next time we go! Maybe order a few of those fruity drinks with the umbrellas," Daxter ranted, making a gesture with his hands as if he was holding a knife. "Y'know, for stabbing purposes. Not 'cause they make me feel bigger or anything. Not like a little beach."

"What happened down here," Damas started, relocating the filled bowl to an isolated corner away from the other colors. "You want to know the reason I asked your accompaniment."

"Well, dark ooze just came outta your hand and then acted like it was just another Monday."

It was just like any other Monday, but not in Spargus. Poison was a coward's weapon, something Haven's royalty wielded always. It was used sparingly throughout the noble houses themselves, for a gun was overlooked on the streets than something poisoned.

"As you know, I was once the ruler of Haven City. I had witnessed those who vied for power, rival houses sinking to any means necessary to win. The most prominent method was assassination."

The look on the ottsel's face concluded that he was concerned. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"I believe Jak may be in danger," confessed Damas. That was the undeniable truth of the matter and was the most pressing.

There was little movement from Daxter during the past few minutes, but his face now turned sour. "Are you _sure_ you've met him before? He's never not in danger, which he makes sure of. Plus, you did kinda, almost kill him, and if you don't then someone else will or he'll end up doing it himself."

"This amulet." Damas pulled the brass chain from his pocket, showing it to Daxter. "You have no recollection of Jak owning it?"

Daxter shook his head. "He's not one for jewelry. Jinx would have a field day if he saw his Blondie running around bedazzled."

"Stand back," Damas exclaimed, pushing the ottsel back with the butt of his staff. The amulet clanged against the stone before falling still as the staff readied above it. "You will not be troubled if I break it then."

The bottom of the staff smashed against the brass. As the hinges broke under the pressure, it zapped open, the contents dissipating in a flurry of purple lightning. So, it wasn't dead but waiting for its next victim. Jak.

Picking himself up, Daxter gaped at the scorched remains of metal on the floor. "What was that?!"

"Dark eco. It being that powerful was not expected," Damas conceded. "Intended to poison its target. A form of it had come from my palm. It is an expensive and rare variety and concentrated enough to fell any man. I had only seen it once, but that was enough for anyone without the ability to channel. It is known for its abilities to lull those in using lucid memories until they die."

There was a mixture of fear and curiosity in Daxter's expression. "And Jak was supposed to…"

"That corrupted amulet was, indeed, for Jak." The king sat quietly, admonished by his desperation in believing such a lie. They had used his Mar against him to take out one of the last things that he cared for in the world. "I made a grave mistake."

"Hey. Look, uh, Damas," Daxter said gingerly, waiting for confirmation to call the king by his name. It was better than a nickname, but this was too serious for responding to that thought. "I made a mistake a long time ago too. One I can't ever forgive myself for. I keep telling myself that, if I only got there sooner, then Jak wouldn't be… What I'm trying to say is we all make them. Mistakes, not uh…"

That mistake was the project Orphne had mentioned. It was true, and that meant Daxter was the one who saved Jak.

"Y'know, we all do things we're not particularly proud of." Daxter was now fidgeting, thinking of what to say. "You said you did it, but now you just have to _fix_ it. Right? Jak's still as healthy as he lets himself be, though he could eat more, looking a bit thin from my point of view, and that shoulders all bone, but he's alive."

"That is true." Damas gave a low chortle to calm down his uneasy mind. "I mentioned that the moment we brought him in, there was more sand than meat on him."

Daxter returned it with a light laugh and an agreeing nod.

"You have done me a great service, Daxter," thanked Damas.

A slight smile from the ottsel had shown it was welcomed.

In time, Jak and Sig would return from their mission, as would that Orphne from retrieving those papers. Damas placed his hand down, lowering it near Daxter. The smile that was once shown turned into a grin as he glimpsed the empty shoulder. He had earned the right to stand on the king's shoulder, only when others were surely not around.

"Daxter. There is one last thing." Damas stopped before reaching the next step towards the stairs. He could be trusted, even with the innermost personal feelings. "There are always grim tidings in deep water, things we are never prepared for. I have waded too far, and hope of returning to land does not last forever. I ask you to—"

"You don't gotta ask," Daxter winked, saving Damas from having to ask a small creature such a large request. "Been doing it since the day I met him."

Ever so slightly, the smile on Damas' face grew. In the event of him not being there to protect Jak, Daxter would be.

"By the by, what kind of shampoo do you use? I could get used to this smell. Also, yer clearly a man of hygiene, someone Jak could learn a thing or two about it because look! _Washed_ ears! Not too much to ask, now is it? Didn't think so."

Daxter could be trusted.

* * *

Author's Note: Some Damas/Daxter bonding, Jak playing in the sand, and what I'm pretty sure is Damas finally getting the hint, but still not biting because there's no tangible evidence. He really wants to believe that his son did all these great things, and had such a happy childhood, but he knows that his son should be like nine or ten now, not eighteen. Kind of just going along with it, just to forget that his son is probably dead, and to have Jak as a son would be an honor. Anywho, Damas is like a desert fruit: hard on the outside, but soft on the inside. No innuendos there. Please. All bark and no bite kind of thing. Sort of how he talked about having Jak and Sig killed for defiling the arena, only to forgive them after they went on a really simple mission. So that's what this chapter is about, and the follow up for the next chapter.

Lastly, I would like to say thanks to Lami for reviewing, everyone who follows the story (your names are safe with me), and those private readers out there. It's nice to know that people like this enough to get this far and have stayed with me through writing it. Makes it feel like I'm writing to an audience now, but I'm sorry if you guys get updates on literally everything I do because sometimes I change two words in a chapter. Also how the chapter names still don't make sense. I'll probably get rid of them later.

* * *

(I know this isn't the place for headcanons, but this will also clear up a bit of stuff if you're confused, especially because of chapter 3. I HC that light and dark eco have more of a metaphysical nature than the other four eco types, which all have explicit physical natures. This was shown as how Jak was more emotional after being exposed to dark eco, and how Gol and Maia kind of went crazy after channeling it. Light eco was then shown to have the opposite effect as Jak became more calm and freethinking? I guess? So since a channeler of light can technically withstand dark, as Jak had, Damas can do the same with similar side effects. Dark eco focuses more on emotion, causing stronger and more vivid memories and feelings towards everything, while light focuses more on emotional indifference, making the channeler view the world in a more straightforward, black and white, way. There's a lot more, but none of you came here for reading my headcanons, but I'm just going to put it out there that the power of eco, in general, is immeasurable and could probably do anything, like let someone become immortal or something silly like alter reality and the space-time continuum.)

I'm sorry if this confused you more.


	6. Chapter 6 - Apostasy

**\- Chapter 6 - Apostasy -**

"No, really. What is it? Vanilla? Almond with a hint of sea breeze? C'mon, give me something to work with here! Conditioner? Are you a man who goes _au naturale_?"

"There will be nothing more said on the matter," Damas finally answered.

They, or mostly himself, had trudged up the stairs, through the palace bedroom, and were now nearing the throne. Daxter had asked hygiene questions throughout the entire ordeal as if he were planning on trying to spruce up a certain someone to be more tolerable to the nose. It was true that Jak could stand to develop a different scent, even in Damas' viewpoint. Foragers smelled of desert fruits, traders of brass, while Jak smelled disagreeable compared to even wastelanders tasked with removing the bodies from the arena. That was not an important matter anyhow.

Past the curtains, there was no one in the throne room, just the old throne itself, awaiting its owner. Fitting for a king, that was what they always said. It was different having Daxter on his shoulder as he sat down, though the extra forty pounds was not welcomed. How Jak could deal with that and its mouth of spineless courage was something that should be added to his ever-growing list of accomplishments.

"What's the plan? I go high, you go low?" Daxter asked, putting up a boxing routine, followed by several moderately fast punches to the air. "They don't call me Orange Lightnin' for nothing. But, uh, you can call in a few of your buddies and they'll help rough him up good too. Just t'be on the safe side."

"Her." Damas began rubbing his mouth with a finger in thought. That was certainly an issue. There was no muscle to her, and as she used dark eco without directly affecting herself, that meant she was thoroughly trained. It wouldn't surprise him if she had some ability in channeling, let alone other weapons to put to her advantage.

"Gotcha. You want some alone time," Daxter winked, prodding the side of Damas' head with his elbow."Going high _and_ low, if ya know what I mean."

"That is true. In a sense of, once she arrives, you leaving the palace."

The ottsel set his foot down, trying hard to give a stern face to the king without acknowledging his toe was caught between two of the shoulder pad's metal spikes. "Hey! You asked me to protect Jak and that's what I'm trying to do!"

"You will be," Damas said, shifting to stare Daxter down with violet eyes. "But at his side."

A finger raised in his defense, but stopped as Daxter opened his mouth in realization. Slowly nodding, he weighed the costs and benefits of fighting in the throne room. There was dying. Dying by drowning. Dying by falling down that black pit. Dying of boredom. Dying in general. "I wish Jak had your noggin for thinking stuff."

"I had believed it best to keep this under lock and key, but there is one detail I left out, purposely," Damas breathed deeply as the ottsel rubbed his toe. This was what should have infuriated him, but it didn't. He had seen the truth in and of Jak himself, even heard Daxter talk about it, but that Orphne would most likely bring evidence of it.

A thing such as that couldn't have happened, not to someone who may have been his son. It didn't happen because he wouldn't have let it. "They had worked in a program, the one who attempted to poison Jak, where he was involved heavily in"

The ottsel looked down, speaking in a low tone, "the Dark Warrior Program."

"You know of it, all too well it seems. A historian studying the principles of dark eco in Haven's prison, Orphne, is to arrive." That was what bothered him. The city may have ran on dark eco, but the study of it had always been outlawed. There never were any historians under his rule, nor that of his family's.

There was always one other that had supported him who may be of help, but if she knew that this was happening, then would she even bother? He had to try. "Though she has no reason to honor it now, I was going to call in an old favor from Ashelin. I suspect what I am looking for will be in that prison, but it is dire we know the motives of her employer. If it is true, what happened, I cannot—"

"Her? C'mon, don't worry. She knows me. My words are honey a feisty wumpbee like her cannot resist." Another innuendo that should be taken with a grain of salt. The ottsel's mood turned as he slumped down bleakly. "There was, uh, something I needed to do there too. If any of that stuff gets out, then Jak'll—"

"I cannot allow for it," Damas repeated, finishing his last statement. "I will not allow for what happened to rule over Jak's life, not now that I know what it was like. If this Orphne feels fit to parade it around, then I shall take no concern in how the spectators decide to end it, though it would best be gruesome."

Torture was not something done in Spargus, even for those such as her. It did, however, make Daxter cheer up a little knowing that someone who had caused Jak all that pain would no longer have access to that information.

"Once she arrives, leave. I had gotten word that you will be leaving Spargus," he smirked. "I shall send word soon, telling you when to return once I have finished this business."

"You really don't miss much out here, do ya?"

* * *

Metal heels clacked vehemently against the cold stone as Orphne paced through the palace, hands pressed on her leather satchel. Red eyes followed Damas' glare, as well as those of the orange next to him. As she made her way before them, she fixed herself, shaking the slight bit of sand from her bun while pulling back wisps of free-floating hair. She lifted her shoulders, billowed the wrinkled tufts from her blouse and gave off a smile.

"Your lordship," she graced herself, bowing slightly before raising her head to adjust a pair of spotty spectacles. "I have returned, though I am afraid that desert life is not one that I am adjusted to."

Measuring every quirk and feature, Damas looked her down. Those clothes were too tight to be hiding anything close to being considered a weapon unless she thought her body alone would be enough to face off against a seasoned wastelander. There was always that chance that she was caught unaware, but someone of her caliber could use such thinking to their advantage. "You have the papers?"

"Of course. I am a woman of my word after all, and I do believe we have quite a bit to discuss," Orphne said joyfully. She moved to her satchel only to pause, glaring at the prominent feature now perched on Damas' shoulder. Breathing deeply, Orphne openly returned the smile to her face, cupping her hands. "A pet? I never took a man like yourself to be the one for them, let alone dressing them up in such an adorable outfit."

"Hmm, pets. Yes, I grew fond of them," he answered, glimpsing to Daxter. "At times, they are more trustworthy than people."

"I've never been a fan of them. Simple and instinctual things, following a certain set of rules." She faintly brought herself back to an optimistic demeanor. "It looks obedient. Trained, I take it?"

Damas shifted his head, ushering Daxter to move down. The ottsel jumped, scuttering past Orphne while giving her a look up. He froze for a second, giving an act of a dumb look before his fuzzy paws hurridly made way for the wooden elevator. The smile turned into a sharp scowl, muttering something under her breath. Daxter nervously nodded to him as Orphne's glance returned to the king, an indifferent smile painted on her face.

The word 'rat' had come clean through her muttering, and there was without a doubt that she had seen Daxter before by the look.

"How captivating," Orphne marveled, watching as Daxter crawled down the rope. "You do know how to impress a quest, your lordship."

"Back to more pressing matters," Orphne said, moving back to her bag. She stopped, hands instead directing themselves to clutch her chest, far more dramatically than her actions the night before. "Before I forget, you have given the amulet to Jak, yes? It pained me to know what had been done to him, but I can at least find some comfort in knowing they were reunited."

He hadn't been there to protect Jak all those years, but he was now. Damas breathed deeply, "he had remembered."

Her hands cupped again, pulling them in close. "That is truly exciting news! It always makes my day to hear of such wonderful things. Precursors know the world needs it."

It was wonderful news, to say the least, that the world would be one less monster short in the coming days. Whether the man who wanted Jak dead would be her dying breath was something that, Precursors know, Damas wished for. "And the papers?"

"The papers, right!" Reaching into her bag, Orphne pulled out a large sheaf of ratty papers tucked in a large, yellowed portfolio. Snags jutted out to show most were well-worn and crumpled, something that was not done in one day. "I must say, you will find very interesting information on these papers. They detail _exactly_ what you were looking for."

Papers that would detail something that didn't matter. Nothing would change his perspective on Jak, not now. Damas reminded himself to play along with another deep breath. There was someone out there trying to get rid of Jak, someone who used a cowards' weapon. If you wish a man to die, you owe it to him to look into their eyes and hear their final words. Though, had they done such a thing they would never have gotten close enough to strike.

"Your reasoning behind this. It is to make up for the past?" Damas questioned. Her look was cholic, a slight eyebrow twitch that was soon soothed over by happy contemplation. "Like many others, you are not indebted to Spargus, yet you freely offer the world to a man you know little of. There must be more to it than easing a king's mind."

It was quick as Orphne smiled once again, pushing the papers into his hands. "I intend to return a favor. A life debt, if you will."

"A favor?" He knew that word was wrong, sitting like bile burning through him. This was as great a taboo as any, having something's past in your hands to do what you please. Yet, these papers may have been the key to what very well may be what he had been searching for. It was just a quick look, one that would confirm Jak was his son. Then he would finish this.

He opened the folder, peering through the papers before flipping through them with a probing look. They were hazy pictures and blurred text, caused by age and what appeared to be water damage. He could make out parts of their character, but none resonated as to being Jak. Orange hair. Dark skin. Tall. All too damaged to see their expression, though he remorsefully knew what would be etched on those faces.

"It may sound rather silly, but the boy refused to take my life." Her head turned away, solemnly pulling back a dry tear. "At that moment, it reminded me of how it used to be. All those years ago, against the world. I believe I owe him that for making me remember."

A clip was attached to the remaining pages, the front a blurred black with withered text. He removed it cautiously, proceeding to the next page with the first picture that wasn't misconfigured. Blue eyes were brimming with fear, mouth slanted in despair in a face flushed white. It was just an image, but the child was trembling in silence, ears rasped down behind him. A purple welt laid mockingly on his cheek, powerless to have prevented it. Emerald-blonde hair was dyed red by a stamp harshly forced down upon it.

Project Terminated.

Text littered the rest of the page, and the words fell flatly as he scanned through them. Damas turned the page, only to come onto more notes. Anger riled in his eyes as he stammered through the enthusiastically written biography of the boy, reading every word with the quiet and undeniable knowledge that they were true. It spat like poison on the page, that they put a young boy, not even old enough to have fuzz on his face, through this.

The text turned to a pure, remorseless black as he continued. There was nothing but a glare from the flash off the lining from metal bars. He continued to move through the pages, seeing the same image of that black over and over with garrish words that were disfigured with age. There was something outlined in the distance, a figure concealed in the safety of the corner, out of view.

As the papers faltered to a small stack, the image became clearer. The bars were now open as if what was in had no longer become a threat. The safety of darkness was torn from its occupant, a filthy green now laid above a bruised olive body that buckled in the cell. Faded yellow spun on the floor, red smeared to its tips running to a small drain in the center.

The body was at rest there, unceremoniously and lifelessly in the drab cell, huddled into the corner. The shirt of the outfit was torn open, now soaked in carmine and brown. Fingers tattered with red were wound around the body, grasping the body for warmth. The hands were rubbed raw, cell walls covered in scratches and marks. Holding back that last shred of sanity with only splintered, bleeding fingertips.

The glimpses became heavy as he curled his finger around the page's side. His stern expression collapsed as his mouth turned wide, gazing away as he saw those dead blue eyes stare at him. It was the boy from before, being pulled over by a yellow glove. There was no hope in his face as if he believed everything they said.

It couldn't have been. Mar was too young, and it just couldn't have been him. If he were just a few years older, then that meant the boy from before, the one who looked like his Mar, all those years ago…

It was Jak.

"What is this!" Damas snapped, throwing the papers and sending them fluttering throughout the room. "You dare bring such a thing!"

She stopped the picking movement at her nails. Orphne's face rose to a smile that had grown wider as his attention befell her. "Oh, you're done _already_? That was fast, though I do have to say those two years he was there weren't."

He clutched the amulet, gritting his teeth as her smile grew wider. There was no resentment to her words, no sorrow. His blood ran hot, hands turning white as they gripped the throne's arm.

"I for one am _quite_ tired of these lies. We have been the only ones to provide anything fruitful, yet here you are insulted at our fine work despite giving the answer _you_ wanted. How selfish," She said derisively, extending her hand out to face her palm against the king. She returned to pick at her nails, admiring her work. "And you didn't even give the amulet to Jak. Too much of a killjoy for that."

Damas unclenched his hand, quickly batting an eye to his gun staff at his left. A warrior must never be blinded by emotion. It was a tool the enemy could use to get to you, but it was just... "Was your intent to take out the king of Spargus, or was I merely a pawn to get to Jak? Your employer, it seems, has forgotten the many attempts of taking my life. Being hard to kill is a reputation I am known for."

" _Employer_? You honestly thought I was something like a common assassin?" Orphne laughed, covering her lips with manicured fingers. "The mere thought is laughable!No, we have _far_ greater plans for you, and it wouldn't feel right to remove such a _vital_ instrument."

"Then I don't believe you understand who you're dealing with," he snarled, curling his fingers around the staff.

She held a hand against her forehead, maniacally cackling. The other laid closely hugged around her stomach to prevent doubling over. As she saw the staff raise against her, she turned to an antipathetic smirk. "Oh, you're being _serious_. I can never tell. Oh, _mighty_ king of the _great_ Spargus! Do tell how someone as desperately feeble as you could do anything to us? Begging the village proper for an ounce of truth. How _pathetic_."

It was instinctual, grabbing the gun and aiming to fire. Emotions had taken over, forcing the brawn of a gun over the thinking of the brain, throwing out every wise lesson he ever gave. This was the woman who was there, watching everything happen. Testing and experimenting on Jak, as if he weren't a human.

The trigger pulled, sending out a burst of red light from the tip of the staff. Orphne sent out a hideous shriek as she fell to the floor, stumbling to clutch her side.

"How dare an insignificant, little— gah!"Another beam of red shot out, ripping the side of the blouse as it clipped her chest.

Moving a foot closer to aim directly at her head, Damas spoke in a growl, "now, who sent you? You will meet a far more disastrous end at my hand than their's, you can trust in that."

"It really has been a long time since I felt pain," Orphne gave off a low laugh. Her face turned upwards to stare at him, her hair now loose and flowing. The yellow bun was now a wave of white, skin darkened at where the shots hit. She covered them, black weeping from the wound broke free from her grasp. "What a strange sensation."

As her hand moved, the wound began closing as blackened skin twisted and reformed. Tendrils of black lightning shot from the residue, disappearing only to leave a softened surface of flesh behind. She staggered to her feet, pushing forwards until the gun was inches away from her. "A rare case that boy was. To think, all those years ago—"

"Who?" Damas questioned, pulling at the ruined blouse to interrupt her. He picked her up, pressing the gun under her chin. "Without a moment's hesitation, I will kill you. Now, who are you?"

"A cornered, little rat asks the muse for its name. How amusing."

"For the one who holds your life in their hands, that is not something wise to say." The grip tightened, lifting her further off the ground. Damas moved to her neck, graspinh firmly around it as her back climbed the wall. Another laugh was the only response to the near-strangulation she would receive.

"Then do it. Decide. Is this truly how you want it all to end, _heir of Mar_?"

The papers spread out around them, the one who brought them into existence ready to perish at the hand of the one who let it all happen. Damas threw her to the ground as he clenched his teeth. Daxter was right in that it was time to make amends for a mistake. The one that let a young boy who lived a happy life, on warm, sandy beaches with all those who loved him, to feel true pain. He readied his promise, gripping around the trigger.

"Your exalted ancestors," Orphne gave another low laugh, taunting him. "Weak. False promises and plots around your beloved light eco. What a shame you'll end up like the rest. Even that fabled Mar, the one your people looked up to so much, couldn't be saved by that disgusting filth. Yet here you stand, thinking there was even a lick of promise in you because of it. Pathetic."

"You know nothing," Damas barked, pushing her against the ground. He held the staff evenly, narrowing it between her eyes as she only laughed again.

"Don't worry, your lordship," she hissed, rolling the title slowly off her tongue. "You'll be reunited with them soon enough. A father-son package. Well, once that boy returns from whatever you sent him to do. That is if my pet hasn't already killed him. I do hope it hasn't, it would be fun to see the look on his face now that his father is truly gone."

Control yourself, Damas reflected. She was trying to get him angry, use his emotions against him to hide her true plans. He breathed deeply, "who are you? I will not ask again."

"Isn't it obvious? I am but a common assassin, tasked with killing the _great_ king of Spargus. How was I to know how fragile he was?"

That was enough. His finger rushed down, only to see red eyes narrowing above, piercing through him. A surge of pain shot throughout his body, index slowed to a frigid halt once the trigger was reached.

"Not even you are you able to discriminate between reality and utter fiction. How sad."

She was gone, no longer laying on the stone ground.

"It was quite cute at the time, but every act has its end. What, with yours being so close you'd know best."

The voice made Damas spin. His throne was occupied by Orphne, wearing a different outfit than before. There was no ruined blouse, nor dress skirt, but now metal armor.

"How did you—"

"What, this?" A dark finger caressed down his cheek, running down his neck as the nail gently clicked on his shoulder pad. "A simple trick. A few years of practice, and then that turns into this."

A single snap.

The king moved quickly, ready to shoot whatever this Orphne was, but froze. The pain pulsed through him again, sending a shock to his nerves. His staff dropped, banging to the ground with a short and sudden clack, rolling next to his feet.

"That really is such a dangerous little toy," she ridiculed, pushing the staff away with her heel. It rolled over the papers, sending several of them into brisk chaos. "What's wrong, your lordship? Can't move? What a shame, I would have loved to see the look on your face as you watched your little brat writhe in agony."

He urged his neck to move, forcing a rupture of energy to disperse throughout his body. The light eco loosened the tense sensation, allowing him to move enough to form a soft uttering. "My son is—"

"Ah, so those fabled powers of yours are quite stronger than the others. I always knew its purpose was to be a thorn in our side"

Than the others? He couldn't speak, couldn't ask what she meant by it. The others died years ago, and he had been alone for quite some time to bear the name of Mar. In the light offered by the palace window, she didn't look older than her early twenties. Even her skin was that of a youthful woman with an odd blue tinge.

"But, yes, he is your son. I admit it took even us as a surprise. Who knew that boy all those years ago was born in the future."

Born in the future? Damas shook it from his mind. She was toying with him.

"Don't worry, I'll take exquisite care of your little Jak, or Mar, whatever his name is," Orphne chortled, moving through the scattered pieces of paper. "He isn't so little anymore though, and I don't know if we can break him more than they already have with all the testing and, well, you've read those papers."

The truth is often taken for a surprising thing, but even after it all it couldn't be enough. Damas knew it must have been true, the proof surrounding him. It was just that his Mar wasn't sent through time. Mar wasn't tortured for all those years. Jak wasn't...

"That Errol always was the ecstatic type. He took his work with such power too personal," she grinned, sifting through the papers without touching them. They pranced around as she looked at them in disgust. "He perverted it."

"Jak—" Damas' words began to stifle as dark marks stretched over his skin.

"Yes, I know. Like I said, we wouldn't have taken him for an heir of that worthless Mar either. If we had known about time travel sooner, maybe we wouldn't have been forced to go through so many boring wars just for those two years."

"—You did this to him!" Damas growled, breaking out. Whatever she was, light always triumphed over the dark, and it was the same with eco. It always counteracted, he told himself, trying to siphon whatever was left to Orphne.

"Really, a thorn in our sides," Orphne jeered as the king moved for her. Rolling her eyes, she clenched his fist. As finger's clasped, Damas' body halted again, stopping his resistance a second time. "Now, would you give it up already? Your fidgeting is quite silly, and as much as I would like to have a little fun, it seems I may need to wait a while longer."

Light eco abilities exhausted by a mere reflex from her hand, yet all Damas could think of was that proverb he, himself, had said. In desperation is a man's worth measured. In a world where the gods existed, time travel was no longer fiction, there was little stopping a man to break his own word. Here, before the scattered testaments of his folly, it crashed through his mind, all at the behest of someone who could somehow manipulate him with just a sleight of hand.

"At least _you_ were more entertaining than those monks, no fun at all with them. Their taste in makeup was _quite_ horrendous as well." Orphne moved, face lightening up as she found what her eyes searched for. She caressed the image, fingers grazing across the surface. "Here it is. How accepting he was of his gift. I can still hear the way he screamed, such tantalizing sounds tug at my very heart. A boy calling out for anyone, a father. One who would never accept him, let alone be the death of him. How quaint."

The death of him? Damas let out a gruff grunt. The best he could do under the impending circumstances.

"I wonder if we'll have to take him seriously this time. Looking at you, I doubt we need to. And before _you_ get quick to judge, who honestly would have thought a stupid boy and that rat back there would be able to take us on? It doesn't matter now. Dark eco or not, he'll die like the rest of your lineage."

The pain shot through him again, stinging and gripping throughout his body as his head was forced to follow Orphne's glance. He tried to speak out, deny her of what she was saying, but the words were silenced in his throat as if he were choking. He could only watch as the picture was raised before him, the deep red lettering staring back.

It was short, though Damas knew it was there. That terrified look drawn on the boy's face looked much like his Mar's the day he was taken from him. If he were only a couple of years older, with that happy childhood Daxter had told him all about, then it would have been him. It must have been him, but now he would be forced to resign to losing him again.

"Take a good look, heir of Mar. This may very well be the last time you see your son again," Orphne cackled, carelessly throwing the paper behind her. The face of innocence gracefully fell into the stream, floating before being unsympathetically dragged down under its own weight. Blue filled with fear drowned, their hope extinguished long ago.

* * *

Author's Note: Yeah, this chapter was shorter than my first one. No spoilers, sorry. Thanks for reading, and I apologize if this chapter was sad because of my view of the Dark Warrior Program.

Last note: Thanks to Lami for consistently reviewing! It's really nice to know someone likes reading my story.


	7. Chapter 7 - Mysticism

**\- Chapter 7 - Mysticism -**

The telecommunicator was warm in his hands, despite the coldness of the situation and the surprisingly cool air from the forest environment just north of the wasteland. They'd been driving for hours, endlessly it seemed, using scattered directions given to them by Brutter. The iffy lurker ceremony that would prove whether the driver was an heir of Mar, cementing evidence that he was Damas' son, was around here somewhere, but that was not the main hurdle.

Talk to Ashelin, Daxter reminded himself, idly thumbing through everything. He just had to wait. That was it. Nothing else.

No other thought passed as calloused fingers tapped against the steering wheel, metronomically pounding into his head. The rhythm broke at every jutting rock or tree that only persisted in crumbling his determination to not tell Jak everything.

Blue eyes would mechanically glimpse over every few minutes asking the same question in a different form and tone. "Something you're not telling me?"

"Told ya everything," Daxter answered nervously, watching as gloved fingers rasped against the leaper-leather steering wheel. They pounded down individually, increasing in speed as the conversation lingered.

In response, teeth rubbed against the chapped upper lip, adding respite by a fast, habitual lick. His head would shake, giving off a tuft of air from his nose in a mocking manner, knowing the ottsel was lying.

"So, you were with him for over two hours," Jak said, biting his lip in that repetitive, grating manner that gnawed at the mentality of the ottsel. He once again looked down the ottsel, staring ahead of him through the worn-down bars of the Sand Shark. "And all you did was catch a kangarat?"

"Yep."

"Dax, you know this is important to me," Jak said plaintively. He swerved out of the way of a clump of trees, placing his hand in front of Daxter warily from the fast turn. "We've been driving for hours and you haven't said anything."

Daxter didn't know how long he could continue to lie, even if it was his strong suit. He spoke in a tone that was angrier than he wanted it to be, "speaking now, ain't I?"

With a gruff sigh and a shake of his head, they continued driving.

Foggy mountains sprawled themselves around the landscape, laying in wait for the duo in the vehicle. That was where they were supposed to go, but he didn't know how long he could last from Jak's questioning before they found a large cave that looked exactly like a lurker. That could range from Brutter himself to his more striking brethren.

Trees stretched far above, towering over the Precursor monoliths on Sentinel Beach. There was grass, actual grass, for what wasn't being strewn up beneath them. Plants winding throughout the forest path, petals following the vehicle as they rushed past. The lush scene was grandiose, despite that there was someone out there actively trying to off Jak. Daxter had somehow managed to pass his mind off to the days of when his hands freely swept through such pure green.

It was funny to think that outside of the wasteland there was this much life. They haven't had time to explore much of the world ever since it changed, and this place was much like the one they left behind so long ago.

"Sorry," Daxter apologized. The scenery calmed him down a bit, even if he selfishly liked this world much better than the last. "Y'know how life or death stuff gets me kinda tense."

"Life or death?" Jak unexpectedly swerved the car again, moving his hand more rigidly than last time to stop the ottsel from shooting out of the vehicle. Seatbelts were a great Spargan invention, but they never came in a small size.

"Lurkers!" Daxter said louder than he intended, doing his best to correct himself. "Y'know, all those teeth and fangs! Gingivitis city here I come 'cause my hide is going right between their chompers. Remember the food chain buddy? Don't know where ottsels are on that, but they sure as hell ain't above lurkers."

Eyebrows furrowed for a slight moment, ending their contemplation as the forest wore thin. Instead of silently questioning Daxter's hysterical façade, Jak's attention turned to the large, drab mountain ahead of him. Brutter wasn't lying when he said it looked like a lurker.

Stone was carved exactly like the face of a lurker, more intimidating through hopeful exaggerations on the size of their teeth. Spurious pillars crowned through the low-lying valley, leading to a horizontally parted face, mimicking that of a mouth open in rest. Long, white horns were mounted on sills, erupting in cacophonous blares as the trees permitted view of the Sand Shark.

Despite the irritated glance from his companion, Daxter openly sighed. He didn't know whether he should be excited that whatever was happening interrupted their nice conversation or be concerned that what looked like a lurker war party was forming. Hundreds of purple and blue bodies poured from the jaw, splitting to form a division between them.

Banners swung through the air as the horns continued to blast, ringing through the valley. Most looked to be those of lurker factions. Images of skulls, plants, and various weapons fluttered, but there was an odd few that swung vicariously in front of the rest.

One was the seal of Mar, the tattered, light blue cloth fluttered in the wind. That was to be expected, as much as Daxter had thought, as the lurkers were allied with Mar's lineage. The other was a near-perfect picture of Jak's face, presumably from one of the posters from Haven after he won the class races. It stood taut between two wooden beams, flying high behind a dark red.

The last, however, was shoddy and flying witlessly as it was only attached to a single wooden pole. It was him! It wasn't a good-looking representation of an ottsel, and his head was much larger than it normally was, but it was him. Daxter smirked at the welcoming party. It was hard to capture the image of a god, after all.

His excitement at the welcoming party vanished as a stiff voice cut in.

"You. Me. We're having a chat after this," Jak said, annoyed. His glare to Daxter was stern as he continued in a low gruff, "and you're spilling everything."

* * *

Mottled flames of golds and purple were spewed up as the fire roared, devouring the blood as it dripped. It singed on the ornate, metal bowl as Jak squeezed his fist, ushering only faint gasps from the lurker elders at the sight. Even Brutter, who had done his best to contemporaneously convince those around that he trusted their heroes enough to proceed with the ancient ritual and himself, had gone silent at the array of lights.

The regalia of bright colors, adorned with faded feathers of a once dazzling color, could not hide the content hidden under the flurry of red fur. The oldest of the triumvirate placed her hands down and bowed. A purple-skinned warrior that rivaled the size of Sig, the other a lean hunter, endowed in brown and black furs against his blue coat, followed suit.

"Son Mar," the two warriors said in unison.

Raising her head, the elder gave a satisfied smile. She waved her hands, a bright orange began to sparkle in the air behind them, forming various runic symbols. As she finished, the watching lurkers began to leave the small, stone room, including the two warriors beside her. The light, silenced scuffling left the room desolate, all but the two visitors, the elder herself, and Brutter.

"Grand Eldress tell all leave. Brutter stays, Brutter translate," Brutter said ecstatically as if he had been given a great gift.

"Better than that birdbrain," Daxter said, grumbling. He was standing idly on Jak's shoulder, disgruntled at the metaphorical knife that was chokingly close to his neck for comfort. That knife would come to his now pampered self every sharp glance he was given.

Quick to return, their now lurker guide pointed to his head and gave a laugh, "no birds up here, Little Orangey Pal!"

"That's it?" Jak asked, "I just cut my hand and bleed into a fire and you're convinced? No hurdles or tests?"

The Grand Eldress slowly nodded, bringing forth more sparkling light.

"No testing, promise! Grand Eldress use lurker magics, fire says you successor of Mar, yes! Fire never wrong, but very enigmatic."

"How does this prove I'm an heir of Mar exactly?" he continued to question, all the while staring down the ottsel on his shoulder menacingly. "Magic fire isn't believable."

Signing more, the Grand Eldress frowned.

"No, no proof," Brutter said, frowning to copy the emotions as the translator. A sparkle caught his eye, spinning to see more light flickering from her palms. "She say you no need evidence."

"I don't _need_ it?" Jak growled. "As it's been going great so far, you say I don't need it?"

She began to sign faster at the tone shift, something Brutter had not expected.

"No, no need," approved Brutter, nodding. He fixed a feather that had slumped back, repositioning it back.

"Uh, Brutter," Daxter started nervously, pointing to the lurker behind who was continuing to conjure lights. "That's a lotta moving for a 'no.'"

Finishing with her movement, she eyed the lurker translator blearily.

"Yes, she extrapolates many mystic things." Brutter blithely said. "Much about Mar man and you heir!"

"Word to the wise, big guy, you might wanna tell him everything."

"Brutter do, Little Orangey Pal!" The lurker nodded enthusiastically, "Brother Jak no need."

Knuckles cracked at how much Jak's hands tensed as they crunched into a tight fist. No one was telling him anything, keeping him out of the blue on something that he looked into. Daxter's incessant refusal to even mention what went down, lying to him about some kangarat nonsense, and now this? Some cheap Onin-like thrills with a lurker who, though he didn't not like, was the opposite of the squawking moncaw that wouldn't stop talking about some prophecy.

"Brutter," he said, controlling himself by breathing deeply, "what does that mean?"

Thinking, Brutter began rubbing his chin. Once he came to some conclusion, with a Grand Eldress whose hands were digging aggressively into her hips no longer giving a message to him, he ecstatically raised a finger. "Brutter speculate Grand Eldress say you no need. Man you prove to already think that way, hmm?"

"He thinks I'm his son?" Jak asked, jarred. He looked to Daxter for confirmation, no longer angry at not being told but childishly curious as to if it were true.

"Kinda."

"Dax, that was what you were hiding from me?"

"Well..." Daxter started gingerly, "didn't want ya to go full on hug-mode right before the big party! Right, Old'n Wise?"

The Grand Eldress clapped her hands momentarily, turning a mirth smile into a grin. She conjured more orange light that floated luminously around the room, causing Brutter to vicariously clap. "Lurker people made big feast in hero recognition! You be real surprised, yes!"

"Heh. Well, what're ya waiting for?" Daxter snickered. "Been holding out on us."

Brutter nodded vigorously, grabbing Jak by the arm to pull him to the feast. He hesitated at first to go along but went with a sigh as Daxter's stomach popped out a slight rumble.

The Grand Eldress smiled at her guests as the room fell empty. The fire crackled out as she looked into its flames. They sputtered out the purple and gold of before, sending a dark red muttering at their base as her face faltered to a grim, toothless frown.

* * *

"For once, can you not get drunk?"

"Fer yer information, I was… makin' sure their stuffs good," Daxter replied, wobbling on the shoulder guard. He burped loudly, patting his stomach. "Who knew lurkers could make such ambrosial magic."

Rubbing his eyes, Jak lightly flicked the plastered ottsel. "Dax, we still need to talk."

"An you need ta shower!"

"This is serious, Daxter," Jak said, closing the door behind him. The guest room surprisingly had one, and it came with a lock, a saving grace from the beaded curtains that accompanied many of the lurker homes. "I saw something out there."

"Then it'll have t'wait 'cause—" Daxter stopped, heaving himself over. He put his weight on Jak, nestling his head into the hair while swallowing whatever was coming up. "Hold on."

Instead of watching Daxter hold in his fluids, for what seemed the millionth time, Jak moved his attention to the finer, less nauseated, details of the room. Like that it was big.

Really big.

Suited for a king, really. A very large bed that didn't look as if it won a hardness contest with a boulder, a new feeling that Jak have never before accepted or noticed, and was covered in a plethora of furs and silks. Fancy curtains hung on the walls, but there didn't seem to be any windows and were more for decoration. Ornate furniture was stand alone, bedazzled with jewels. There was a variety of random porcelain shapes, a glass chandelier, and… a warm, wet feeling running down his head.

"…Ya really need t'shower now."

"Did you just…?" he groaned the moment he felt the warmth run again. He threw Daxter at the bed, slowly beginning to reach up to his hair. No, he didn't want whatever that wet feeling was on his hands.

"Drunk me did, babe."

"If you're not sober by the time I get out, then those lurkers are going to eat well," Jak grumbled, opening the door to what he took as the bathroom and not another wing of the bedroom.

"They're pescatarians, Jakkie-boy. Pescata..."

Jak closed the bathroom door harder than normal to show Daxter he was serious about him sobering up. After several seconds of listening to check whether the ottsel was passed out, which the loud snoring asserted, he slumped against the door, grabbing a spare towel that was hanging to clean his hair.

It wasn't coming out. He continued to rub down his hair with the towel, admiring how specific everything was in the room. If anything, it astounding how technologically different lurkers were to humans. Their greatest inventions didn't use eco, and now he was suited to what looked like a master bathroom. A large tub sat beneath a showerhead, glistened with an array of glass bottles that looked ornate, of royalty. This must have been the guest room of an heir of Mar.

Eyeing the shower head, he scoffed to himself. He didn't like showers. Every time they started, he'd flinch out of habit, readying himself to be hit with the butt of a gun if he didn't kneel.

Maybe he didn't need to shower. He got up, looking into the wide mirror. Playing with his face, there was more dirt than there was visible skin. His hair was languidly laying on the sides, mangled from whatever was thrown up on the crown.

Maybe he did need to shower.

He wasn't alone, Jak reminded himself. Daxter was in the other room, and his thoughts were still fresh in his mind. That was reassuring. Doing the thing he hated most while thinking. Apparently, Damas knew about the existence of the lurker civilization, and that he already believed everything he told him. It made him giddy as the thought went through, finally having a father and knowing he would soon return to Spargus to find open arms.

Jak sighed, loosening the straps on his boots. He went back over the room, glimpsing casually at the assortment of bottles and vials. Washes, he assumed. There were hundreds of them as if it were easy enough for him to decide between the one he was given back in Haven. That, much like these, were still full.

"Vanilla," he muttered, picking up one nonchalantly to read the label. He continued to go through them until his eye caught a specially marked bottle. He ran his finger to it, picking it up and looking it over. Some fragrance, expensive looking. He sniffed it, immediately putting the cap back on and putting it back. That unsettlingly smelled like Damas.

* * *

"Governess, there was another revolt in slums."

"One thing right after the other," Ashelin said, biting her lip in frustration. The red lipstick had already worn thin from teeth marks.

Absolving the council had come back to bite her harder than she had thought, and even Veger's absence was troubling for the nobility. No one had bothered to come clean about what happened to the old count, and if anyone said he was, as to Daxter's relation of the story, turned into an ottsel and suffered a fate worse than death, no one would believe it. That, and even if the re-established grand council knew Jak played a very small role in Veger's demise, the blame would have already been swung onto him since he wasn't here to defend himself. Again.

"What were they offered?" she asked, holding her hip back distressed while the other was pursed out.

"Rations. This time, the nobles can't promise them."

As one war in Haven ended, another arose. The Freedom League has divided again, the recovering city was plagued by political turmoil, and her ability to govern was wearing thin. That and her discovery that was unearthed much earlier worsened her view of the royalty much like herself.

"They would expect us to fight our own. How many rations can we spare?"

The guard flipped up several pieces of paper from his clipboard, running his finger down the page. "We're expecting the next shipment soon, but as of now we have enough to comfortably feed all viable sectors for the next three days."

"What you're saying is that we have what the nobles don't?"

"Correct, my governess. That is only if the shipment comes early."

"Then make it so. Call them to increase the eco usage and—" Ashelin stopped as her telecommunicator flashed. It was Jak. "Just tell them to use the partial reserves and bring the shipments early. Distribute them to the slums and remind them that this was a gift from their governess."

"Of course," the guard said, quickly nodding in answer before walking off to finish his other duties.

She sighed, fondly holding her telecommunicator. It was good to finally be able to hear from Jak, she just hoped he wouldn't be brought to the same mood. There was much they needed to discuss, and much she needed to apologize for.

As the ringing brought itself past ten seconds, Ashelin mustered the courage, something especially rare for her to need to do, to answer. "I've been meaning to call you about— Daxter? Where's Jak?"

Daxter's fuzzy appearance was shoddy as if the clearance was weak. _"He's wet and wild rubbing himself all over, getting away from reality. The showers."_

"Oh. I shouldn't have picked up then," she said, slightly flustered. She shook the idle thoughts from her mind, sending the slight redness away under her tanned skin. "I'll call back later. Tell Jak that it's important I speak with him."

That was what everything this was about. Jak. She had only found out everything right as his final battle with Errol neared, brought to her attention before she even left. At that moment, she didn't know what to feel or how to act.

 _"This is important, Ashe. And I didn't misdial or nothin'."_

"Then this is about what? The royal houses are keeping me busy and I can't have you asking me to send a patrol around your bar. That dog you had Tess plead for me to allow is already taking that to heart."

 _"It's not about that."_

"Then what is this about, Daxter?"

There was a long silence from the other end of the line, causing Ashelin to check the line on the supercomputer in front of her. The nobles could have cut the line or caused some infernal interference again, she sighed to herself, tapping away at the keyboard.

Static humming briskly came through as the voice on the other line spoke with an air of languor, _"The prison, and Jak."_

"The prison, and Jak," she repeated somberly. That was what she was going to call Jak about. How she never knew any of it was happening, that if she did she would have stopped it.

That was what she believed she would have done, but the thought ran through her mind. The ultimate weapon, and as morbid as it was the cost of a few lives to save many would be anyone's choice. It was her father's, and that if it could have worked she would have done the same. It did work, and Jak was the unfortunate consequence that she couldn't forgive anyone for.

 _"Y'probably don't care 'cause duties, but Damas said ya owe him a favor."_

"Damas?" Ashelin was taken back a moment. She briefly looked around the room of the new headquarters, empty of all except herself and the whirring of the computers. Vin made sure they hadn't bugged any of the systems. "He's always had my support. Why didn't he ask me himself?"

 _"He's a bit busy."_

"Busy? The old man already has his hands tied up trying to fix another problem that city of his has on his own?" She snickered lightly, going over the reports of Damas' selflessness during his reign in her mind. That man never learned, but she never took that as a weakness.

 _"Droughts, famine, creepy women, finding out Jak's his son, desert storms. The usual."_

"What!" Ashelin blurted out, stopping her typing immediately. "Daxter, that isn't something to joke about. That kind of information could lead to royal families trying to kill him. The only reason Damas hasn't been bothered by any of it was that everyone thinks he's dead."

Fingers rubbed eyes jadedly. If the Grand Council found out Damas was alive they would have a field day. War on Spargus and who knows what they'd do to their governess who brought back that seal covered in blood from the wasteland years ago.

That could be handled. What couldn't be handled was Daxter's errant admittance of Jak being an heir of Mar. He couldn't be, even if he finished those trials the descendants of Mar could only complete. The light eco channeling was a coincidence.

 _"Wouldn't have figured. What, with the last deep-six attempt yesterday, I'da thought they'd be welcoming him with open arms."_

"It was yesterday?"

 _"Some Orphne came in blabbering on about the Dark Warrior Project, gave Damas some thingy with dark eco in it, then came back and gave him some papers on it."_

"That's… She worked in the prison?" Ashelin said, biting her lip heavily. She quickly ran through what could be freely accessed of her computer's database, looking for the name. Large, red letters shot up on the screen. "I'll have my men scout the records for the name. They worked under my father in that project, correct?"

 _"Dunno. Whatever she's up to Is in that prison. Y'gotta send someone in there to check it out. C'mon."_

Another thing she couldn't do.

"My hands are tied, Daxter," She sighed deeply away from the telecommunicator. "I wish I could do something, but the moment I order any of my men to organize we'll have the royals thinking it's out to undermine them."

 _"Somebody else? Anyone?"_

"Talk to Torn. He's under barracks arrest for the time being, but the nobles never knew we had Vin," she grinned at revealing her slight trump card. "Vin rewired himself into the city's mainframe and has allowed us to maintain contact without their interference."

 _"Dax? You awake?"_

"Is that Jak? Daxter, I need to talk to him urgently about—" A sharp snap ended the transmission.

She swore under her breath, shaking her head at the static screen. That was rude, even for Daxter. It was like he was trying to hide their conversation from Jak.

There was the topic of conversation that must have been a coincidence. There were strange occurrences flooding in lately, reports of people going missing and seeing things. Even though the prison was shut down after the battle for the city, destroyed after the falling of the palace, there was something active there.

"Vin, I need all current video on what we talked about earlier."

The holographic head popped in to place in front of the large monitor display. "You sure about that? Circuits aren't much of a replacement for nerves but seeing those give me the heebie-jeebies."

Her death glare was enough of an answer

"I also take 'yes' for an answer," Vin said, his hologram jittering and shaking as Ashelin turned away. Whirring and buzzing left the platform, sending Ashelin's telecommunicator flashing. "There. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go convert metadata from faulty rootkits by script kiddies that thought it was as easy as decoding your basic firewall log."

The list of files flew past on the screen as her eyes ran through them. Her father took pride in these, having the nerve to store them separate from those in the prison. And now, if one of the royal families gained access to it then everything would be over for Jak in Haven.

Turning the telecommunicator off, she clipped it to her belt. The noble houses were breathing down her deck constantly, and even if she didn't know any of this was happening, wanted to know if everything was all right, her city needed her.

"Vin, one last thing," Ashelin said, holding the door frame. "Those files my father stored, I want them gone. No one else needs to know about them."

* * *

Author's Note: I'm sorry to say that chapter seven was mostly short filler, and I'm expecting eight to be a bit more exciting than this. I also brought Ashelin and Vin in, who I've never done before, and now I'm diving into lurker lore. I created an OC, the Grand Eldress who is kind of the lurker version of Onin, who I'm expecting to play a minor role in this.

So, a lot of unexpected things happened this week. I got a lot of new followers to the story, which is nice because it means people like this, and I, unfortunately, pushed this off a bit to participate in a theme week event. I'm still trying to push out one chapter every two weeks, but I think I've found a nice medium at 4-6k words per chapter because that 9k word chapter took a lot out of me. Also, special thanks to Lami who constantly reviews because it's encouraging to write if you know someone enjoys it and gives feedback.

(This is HC lore and can be skipped)

To me, I've always believed the lurkers to be a fierce tribal group. They're under a triumvirate of the three remaining lurker tribes, given the names by human-folk of the Purple Tribe, Blue Tribe, and Red Tribe. Of these tribes, I used what was given in TPL to kind of create what they would each be doing, so the Blue Tribe used to be nomadic hunters, while the Purple Tribe were hunter-gatherers. The Red Tribe was the technologically more advanced, learning to use and wield eco to assist them in daily tasks.

It is canon that the lurker tribes were united under Mar and allied with humans, but them all moving to Haven never seemed realistic, which is where their home is. Many lurkers came to Haven under the rule of the Mar Dynasty (I think it was a dynasty?), where they found work and trade. However, during the transition from the Mar Dynasty to the Praxis Dynasty, the lurker people were less accepted and those that did not return home were enslaved.


	8. Chapter 8 - Communication

**\- Chapter 8 - Communication -**

"Dax, you awake?"

The door opened slowly as Jak peaked his head through, eyeing the room for any sign of his orange friend. Everything was in place as it was before he left to shower: the bed was neat with light furrows from where Daxter had jumped, every ornamental piece was in its place, and nothing they hadn't touched moved. Everything was there, excluding Daxter, except for one thing.

His communicator.

"Talking to Tess?" He asked, rubbing down his hair furiously with the towel. It sent slivers of loose, wet hair tumultuously bundling for the floor, the others still caught in the fabric as he removed it to reveal a storm of whipped emerald-blonde. It'd fully dry later, he thought, throwing it back into the bathroom.

No answer.

Jak shrugged it off, taking his boots and setting them next to the bed. He sat down, resting his hands on his knees, sitting patiently for anything to happen. An ottsel dive bombing him from behind to vigorously blabber about how the Precursors must be looking down on him now that his nose would no longer be tormented by the "horrors" of smelly body odor that wasn't his. A lurker smashing through the door telling him that the ceremony wasn't over. Damas calling him to announce he may return to Spargus for an urgent task, a façade.

"Clean!"

He spun quickly to the voice, finding a mass of orange launched towards him. He was thrown back a bit by the ottsel that catapulted itself at his hair, though he managed to grab onto Daxter and pull him off.

"That wasn't so bad," Daxter said smartly, still holding onto Jak's blonde ends. "Didn't just grab a bottle to spray yourself and call it a shower."

"I'd never. The port water is much nicer." He returned wryly before looking back over to the table next to the bed, still without his communicator. Jak returned his gaze to the seemingly innocent ottsel. "Who'd you talk to while you faked it?"

"Faked what?" Daxter asked, clacking his claws together as his paws met. "And who says I was talking to someone? Just myself."

"You've been acting weird lately."

"Oh, so a guy can't talk to himself without being labeled as 'weird,' huh? What has society come too? 'Cause I really woulda thought being a talking ottsel covered that title."

Jak snorted. There probably was a better choice of words to use, with him being in the same boat as the 'weird' crowd. "You know what I mean."

"A guy can't?"

"He can, it's just... Nevermind." He shook it out of conversation awkwardly. "I wanted to talk about what I saw earlier."

"Yesterday, right? I don't want to talk about today 'cause I've seen lurkers do some really 'weird' things."

Unless something that looked like a lurker existing of dark eco was what he saw, then Daxter was back on his stick.

Jak moved on the bed, scooting closer to the frame so he could better face the shorter part of the Demolition Duo. "I saw something. It was like a lurker."

"Hey, uh, babe. Don't want to, y'know, scare ya or anything but we're in a city of lurkers," quipped Daxter. "You'd be blind if you didn't see one."

He would have hit him for that had he not wanted to talk to him.

"Back from Sandover. Like on the silo," Jak began gingerly, not knowing how to exactly explain what he saw. "It was made of dark eco."

A cord was touched in Daxter as his mouth slowly dropped and tail straightened. He started through his compulsive repetition of fidgeting with his paws, trying to hide his sudden nervousness.

"It's dead now," Jak said, trying to comfort Daxter a bit. "I thought we saw the last of them back there. It must have survived all these years."

That was the one thing he was sure of. After a blast from Sig's peacemaker, and how it blew up, it was dead.

"After your late-night gun shows, it better be," Daxter said, blearily laughing.

"I wonder who was experimenting with dark eco."

"Y-yeah, experimenting with the dark stuff. No idea who'd do something like that, y'know? Only crazy people, heh."

Jak gave his concerned look again.

However, before he could continue coaxing his friend into telling him what was wrong - coaxing, as in torturing with glares - a lurker suddenly barged into the room without knocking. Brutter stood in the doorway, panting as if he had run a marathon to get here. "Oh Brother Jak! Grand Eldress say ceremony not over, need you now, yes!"

"Could ya knock next time? We were having a moment big guy," the ottsel said, hands going on hips as if he were about the berate Brutter. While Jak turned, he figuratively wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"Knock? Silly Little Orangey Pal, me no bother knock! All lurkers brothers, no secrets." Brutter announced loudly, still somewhat out of breath. He had said it if there were no private lives in the lurker city.

Looking down at his hand, which had healed relatively fast, Jak groaned. Two out of three bids was good, but the third was what he hoped for. That, and not having to cut his hand a second time to bleed into a fire.

"What do I need to do this time?" he jadedly asked.

"Grand Eldress say more problem come, very enigmatic. Hehe, you are no yakkow! No need for blood, Brother Jak, only talk!"

Sighing loudly, Jak got up from the comfortable bed. "Come on Dax, let's go."

Brutter began to wave his hands at the duo. "No no, she say only Brother Jak come."

Jak looked back at Daxter, gave another loud sigh, and grabbed his boots to follow Brutter out of the room.

Another hand wipe to the forehead was produced by Daxter, who kicked the telecommunicator further under the pillow to make sure it was there.

* * *

"Whaddya think?"

"What do I think?"

"Well, yeah," Sig said, rubbing his shoulder. He had taken off his armor, for now. He'd heard about the nobility rising in Haven, but even without the solid metal, he could intimidate just about anyone by glancing at them.

Except for Tess.

With the weird stuff he was getting into, he'd need his armor. A security blanket of sorts. However, she had a 'no armor' rule in her house and sternly fought against any reasons as to why he wanted to continue wearing it. It could damage the house, which had gone through several repairs by the looks of it, or knock something over. He did, however, keep his gun slung next to him to ensure Tess didn't want to inspect it again to see how it was made.

He couldn't complain since she was the only one he could turn to after Damas ordered him out of the city for an undetermined amount of time. Nice little house in the middle of the port district, a walk away from that bar if he ever felt the need of trying to forget, and it was one of the safest places in all of Haven. If anyone made it past the giddy pink living room, they'd be greeted by a wall of guns and an angry blonde aiming her 'bad boy' at them to send them to high heavens.

"It's adorable!" Tess squealed, placing down the pink tray of porcelain teacups so she could hold her hands tightly to contain her excitement.

Sig took an empty teacup, putting it out so Tess could fill it. She loosened from her enthusiastic attitude momentarily, pouring dark brown tea from the pot with several tags flitting from the top. Steam rose from the white cup, a chip stood on the gold rim with a crack running down its side. The others all carried simple abrasions, each was a part of a different set.

"Adorable isn't something Damas does."

"There are probably some ulterior motives, Precursors know we all have them," she giggled, pouring herself a cup. "But if I were in his boots, then I'd make sure I would have him all to myself."

He took a sip. Nopal tea. A delicacy in Haven and something you'd make yourself back in Spargus. That is if anyone ever made tea.

Tess turned on the space heater that was next to a stand of collectibles sitting on a yellowed doily, varying in sizes and shape. There was nothing special about them, except a crack here or there on a glass ornament, or even fading paint on a miniature carousel.

She returned to her seat, sitting side saddle as she warmly caressed her teacup. A little rustic spoon was pulled from a blue sugar bowl, putting a small helping into her cup before holding it out to Sig, which he refused.

"That's not something you can just announce either, right?" she asked, stirring her tea wistfully. "Spargus doesn't seem like the place for special treatment, so he might just want it to be kept quiet."

He had to agree with that. If anyone in Spargus even found out that Jak was Damas' son then factions set to depose him would start popping up. Even if he had the support of almost all the city, to the point of being the only unchallenged king, that could change.

"But you believe it all?" Sig placed his down as to not throw it when his hands went out in question. "Jak being his son and all that nonsense?"

"Well," she bit her lip for a moment, "Daxxie said Jak never lies, and I've never seen him do it before so there must be some truth behind it."

"I guess," Sig agreed. It was the same reasoning. He even used it as an excuse himself. Might on wander over to the palace, get up the elevator, and ask Damas himself if it was true.

Didn't even have the time neither. Logged in what happened after the line went dead, the little keys being the pain that they were didn't help either after typing out some and grumbling the rest to Kleiver only to be sent off real fast. They didn't even allow him to trade in the old box they'd found for some rations, which he'd also have to explain to Jak why that wasn't going to happen either.

The day was going real spiffy.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," She said, giggling reassuringly, a talent only she had. "If there's anything, our boys out there will handle it."

"I 'spose so."

He finished his tea and, not accepting any more of it – the stuff was jam-packed with sugars and his smile sure didn't need any of that – put the cup down. Tess was still on her first, slowly taking small sips and just enjoying the company, even if Sig did undeniably come to her for advice ever since he learned to trust her the first month as being a bouncer.

"Maybe I'm looking into it too much," he guessed, laying back into the 'coral' chair. Tess mentioned it was a shade of coral, not salmon.

"Let him settle it out themselves. From what Daxter has told me, Damas really likes him. There's that bond that father and son share between them, and it's all just so oooh!" She ruptured into another squeal. "It's like out of a fairytale!"

Turning uncomfortably in his seat, Sig didn't know which kinds of fairytales Tess was talking about. All the ones his momma had told him since he was young ended with someone dying, and Haven's washed out versions were usually about love.

"Just don't know if Damas will believe any of it. The Mar I knew was a decade younger than Jak, and time travel ain't real. I know that, you know that, and Damas sure as hell does."

Tess pursed her lips at Sig's sudden tone change. She looked back in agreement before he stopped her.

"Sorry 'bout that," Sig apologized. "Its just that I've been looking for that kid for years now, and then someone dropped sand on the fire. You shoulda seen how bad Damas was when Mar was taken, and I don't know if he can take it being brought back up again."

"Like I said," she began, "there's that connection. Daxter said he always choked on his words when Jak was there, and how Jak's face always lit up when they'd talk."

"Real observant, ain't he?" Sig chuckled. "Damas really has improved since he found Jak beaten worse than a plowing yakow in the wasteland. Thought it was my training, but my chili peppers really have raised in ranks over in Spargus."

She smiled.

"Just can't keep my mind off it, you know?" He sighed, pulling himself forward in the chair. "Like something real nasty is 'bout to happen 'cause of it."

"Don't I?" Tess giggled, placing her cup of tea down on the white center table. "Something good is about to happen, and you're just getting protective about it."

"Never thought of it that way."

"One way or another, Jak's about to have a dad. My little schnookums wouldn't stop talking about this Sandover and how happy they were there, and good things like that don't just come around anymore," she said solemnly. Rocking it from her mind, she got up and headed for the room behind. "But I know _exactly_ what'll take your mind off all this and let it just play out."

"More tea?"

"No silly," Tess said, letting out a small giggle. She left the room, and as Sig waited as patiently as he could alone in a room in Haven, she returned with a black, metal cylinder. "Tadaa! Now, I'll just need that bad boy of yours for a moment."

"I guess its payment to let you tinker with it," Sig gave a low chuckle, looking at his gun to remember exactly what it looked like. Tess was known for taking a small blaster and turning it into somewhat of a cannon in her free time, and he didn't need to be carrying an extra fifty pounds just to have his baby shoot a little farther or more accurately. "Just don't take anything apart unless it needs repairing, okay?"

"This'll really take your mind off all that stuff," Tess smirked, forcefully grabbing the modified peacemaker out of excitement. "We'll just make a little change here, and here, and maybe here... You'll really be surprised how far the change from short-stroking to a lone trip, laser-guiding light trigger goes."

As the devilish smirk became wider with every passing glance at parts of his peacemaker, Sig had entirely forgotten the subject at hand. His baby was forcibly brought in for repair, and it'll come out looking like something entirely different.

* * *

The air was hot and muggy in the all but abandoned headquarters underneath the streets of Haven City. The walls were still masked with posters and fliers of years before, once sending messages about the cruel dictator and how his reign must be put to an end. They were a reminder now, whispering that once one king falls another will rise to take their place, with others waiting behind for their turn for the throne.

Even the graffiti still lingered, though the paint used was as cheap as it came and became scruffy and jagged. Chips plastered themselves along the base of the wall, shuffled away with dirt to create a distinguishable dark green. Only the insignia stood out, the old emblem of House Praxis stood admonished by a hammer cracking down upon it.

Taking a deep sigh, Torn rubbed his hand aimlessly on the dusty on the center table, clearing the sight of Haven before most of it fell. He had lead men through it all, lived through it all, and one of the only things left that showed Haven from the days of old was a cracked table in the condemned Underground resistance hideout.

There wasn't much else to do down here than contemplate. Looking at old memories of when the Underground Resistance first took root, when it first brought its name into the heart of the rebellion. That became a simple way to waste time for whenever the inevitable happened.

That, or watch the Shadow tentatively ponder through old newspapers.

He had chosen to accompany him during his house arrest, honoring the now forsaken Freedom Guard leader and EX-Underground commander by sending out various jibes once something peaked his interest in papers from years ago.

For Torn, it would take some getting used to. Not the sarcasm that would mercilessly pass through the older man's lips, but the story that had been drilled into his head time and time again by someone that wasn't Daxter or a certain commando high off his rocker.

It was inane, and something even he couldn't believe after everything that happened. He'd even seen the two of them together, but they couldn't have been more than just twins.

Years after The Shadow supposedly went back into time – which was as absurd as finding new recruits off the street that were viable, but he knew how that went last time – he continued his daily routines and activities all the same, just with more of an aging 'grace.' There wasn't a plant out of place in the small alcove the Shadow called his home, nor a book or paper out of his organizational strategy for keeping the record.

The name was supposed to be figurative, hiding in the shadows. That never explained how this 'new' Shadow knew everything the last one did, which was inconceivable unless this was him. However, returning to how his name was symbolic to the Underground movement, the fact he had a child was something that never came up until a girl with green hair came with Tess on her self-enforced lunch delivery.

The disgruntled man never liked to talk about that, or what had supposedly transpired up until now. The only thing he did talk about was current events and mumbling turned into full ornery ramblings about how nothing changed the second time.

"I swear, this city never learns," Samos said, following the headlines on the front page of a paper from days before. _Count Velan Royal Council Withdrawal_ was written in bold lettering, a picture of a grieving family below next to a casket that was adorned with various tapestries of a single symbol. "Give these writers some pixie dust and they'll be able to finally sell that purge they've been talking about."

"I wouldn't be surprised if they haven't already," Torn grumbled, knocking his fist against the crumbling Baron's seal. He spun angrily and sat down in his chair, laying his elbows on the command table. "Those idiots out there will believe anything."

His eyes cruised over the brown tattoos on his hands until they met one that was freshly drawn. Though Ashelin was tired of the old ways, of marking the guard to remind them of their position, he had managed to convince her. He didn't know why, but it was always there to tell him that his duty was to be there at her side and protect her no matter what.

Idiots will believe anything.

Huffing, Samos side-eyed the frustrated commander. "Yes, like believing crude remarks and idle threats are something your governess has never heard before?"

"They threatened to kill her!" he barked, slamming his fist down on the table hard enough to displace a uniform pile of read papers. "What was I supposed to do?"

"One would think it best to not play into their hands," Samos said, moving his head mockingly out. He returned to his paper as Torn scowled at him, reading through the paragraph of how Count Velan passed in his sleep, peacefully – poison. "Who knew that the governess' royal guard was scared of a few fat, pompous men that can't even fathom getting their own hands dirty."

Torn again scowled at the remark. Who was the Shadow to say that, knowing everything the nobles have been capable of, disregarding it all after seeing some minor noble poisoned? They've facilitated this war, and the man whose feet were dangling in one-foot platforms, who could be considered fat and pompous as much as the nobles, believed otherwise.

He scrunched himself further into the old chair as the Shadow continued with his reading, mumbling intangibly at every word the older man disagreed with that was written by a journalist paid off by a noble. Apparently, the belittlement from that assertive outburst was enough and came with no further complaints about something he wasn't capable of dealing with anymore.

There did come a burst of sound that could have been a good sign that cut through the glaring and the teeth grinding. His personal communicator began to buzz, using the telecommunicator's cry that Vin specifically created to ensure the line was from a source that wasn't tampered with.

It wasn't a good sign, Torn thought as he picked up the metal device. The bright, craven letters jarred against the screen, flashing and fading periodically as it emitted the high buzzing screech.

Vin really couldn't have picked a better sound?

There was that, and if the old saying of how you can only trust someone as far as you can throw them was put into play, he could, unfortunately, trust the caller for several yards if they were ever in position to play a game of 'distract the guards by throwing a talking rat.' Jak never took too kindly to the joke.

"Well?"

"'Well' what?" he asked indignantly.

"Are you going to answer it?" Samos inquired. He shuffled the newspaper over to the next page, giving it a good wrack to straighten it up. "Or did you plan on finding some form of entertainment from letting it ring?"

He warily raised a finger to the touchpad, holding it down on the small, green check to accept the call. As the light reconfigured to a static screening, connecting the other line through a measured check that was set up to protect all calls from anything the Royals could use to redirect it, Torn dejectedly sent out a gust of air. "What do you want?"

 _"Heya Torn, I—"_

"Did you just call me 'Torn?'"

Muddled silence came from the grafted reception. _"That's your name, isn't it?"_

"No." He retorted defiantly. The last time Daxter didn't use some stupid nickname like 'Dreadlocks' or 'tattooed wonder,' as if the last one was supposed to be an insult.

Paper ruffling stopped as the telecommunicator squeaked out a joking response of, "that isn't your name?"

It wasn't common for him to call Daxter 'rat' anymore, even with the outstanding overall lack of evidence to suggest otherwise. Rats had their purpose in life and Torn never believed himself to be one to say otherwise as he'd met many in his life that he wouldn't consider a terrible ally, though not entirely trustworthy as per the nature that gifted them that name.

He'd been working on it, sincerely trying, to called Daxter by his name.

"I'm not helping you with whatever hair-brain scheme you've come up with this time. If you're looking for someone idiotic enough to fulfill your delinquent delights, talk to Jinx," Torn carried on, sighing between transitions. Reminding himself of Tess' inclusionary speeches and mustering the urge to not immediately end the conversation, he let out his frustrations in a small tweak and chose the high road he hoped the receiver wouldn't be able to reach ever again. "You got that, Daxter?"

 _"I haven't come up with anything!"_

The little demon was probably lying.

"Great, now—"

Unbeknownst to Torn, the newspaper reading man behind him had dropped his self-absorbed reading. Surprisingly to him as well, he was thrown back into his seat by a green hand, losing whatever momentary footing he had in the conversation.

"Daxter? Is that you?" Samos asked, shaking the metal box in his hands furiously to get an answer. He began eying the small transceiver hole, putting it up against his monocle.

Even after all those years, he still never understood how they work, only that they do and it allowed him to nag people from afar.

 _"Samos?"_

That was the fastest he'd ever seen the Shadow move, ironically like how shadows are supposed to. After a quick grunt to himself, reorienting himself to the supposed sage now holding the telecommunicator as eagerly as a child with candy. Something Torn never expected to see coming from anything involving Daxter.

"Shadow, he's planning on doing something stupid," Torn warned, grabbing the talk-box from his old commander.

"For the last time, my name is Samos. The Shadow was my younger, naïve self who thought such a name was ever appropriate or in good taste," Samos sighed at rethinking his past decisions. He laid his hand open, curling his fingers to address it being empty. "Now, Torn, hand me that communicator or I will make you see shadows."

Noxious giggling came from the other end of the line.

"Fine," he said, dropping it into Samos' grasping hand. His eyes narrowed as it landed, "just don't think for a moment that I won't be listening."

"What else are you to do after your sudden ejection from Ashelin's side?" Samos joked, a little harsher than Torn had figured it would be. His attention returned to the communicator, and after a sharp breath, he addressed the listener. "Now Daxter, how are you?"

He said he would be listening, but one of the speakers took the opportunity to come with him only to poke a gibe now and then, and the other was a gibe.

How they were doing didn't interest him anyways.

 _"Jak's fine."_ It came out of the communicator, as if on queue.

Torn turned to the rusted metal backdrop, finding his knife implanted into the wooden frame of the wall's support beams. He had been throwing it early, practicing his technique, but a motionless beam of wood wasn't anything good.

"As expected, I suppose."

He twiddled with the knife innocently, brushing his thumb across its spine. Military issue, given to him by Ashelin herself as a gift after his old one broke off in the skull of a metalhead. It was curved, concaving inwards to a point.

 _"But, uh, how long till ya tell everyone Jak's an heir of Mar?"_

If he had anything in his mouth, he'd have choked on it. Instead, Torn began to choke on his own words once he saw Samos' mouth open in understanding that it was no longer a secret.

"Jak's what?!"

"I had planned on doing so once all this political nonsense had met its end," Samos said. His posture sunk as he held tighter onto his cane for support. "Unfortunately, it seems that was not the best course of action."

Not the best course of action? Jak, the kid he'd sent on so many suicide missions, all authorized by the Shadow himself, was an heir of Mar?! Torn took a double-take, wide-eyed at Sh-Samos – he needed to remember he was no longer the leader of the Underground and said he took to the name of Samos – for believing any of that.

 _"'Course not. Only you'd know that all this would'a happened anyhows."_

"I only know so much, Daxter." Samos lamented quietly. His once brazen attitude fell as he spoke, mournful as to not being able to know everything that happened. He shook it from his mind. "You had something else you wished to talk about?"

 _"That?_ Nothin' _special. Just someone trying to kill Jak with dark eco."_

There was another double-take from Torn, this time to someone trying effectively using dark eco.

"Someone tried to what?!"

Only top-notch assassins, and the rare breed of those who have some sort of affinity for that, let alone someone who can even get their hands on it in the first place, could control dark eco as a weapon.

"With dark eco, you say?" Samos began to stroke his beard, reminiscing through his thoughts. Dark eco, the very substance he had warned many against, reared its ugly head into his life once more.

 _"Some lady named Orphne. Said she was a historian or something at the prison. Took some papers about Jak and was going to give them to Damas."_

Samos turned to Torn, and Daxter had gone silent on the communicator. Both were awaiting Torn's interjection of hearing that Damas, past ruler of Haven City, was alive somewhere.

"I can believe that," Torn said, shrugging to the confounded look Samos gave him. "What? That Damas is a hard man to kill."

Returning to the subject, Samos muttered "the prison" under his breath. Setting the communicator down with a sharp thud, he quickly made his way over to his table. He rustled through the pile of papers, swiftly shifting them aside after quick glances. A brisk "aha" meandered its way out in conversation as he held up a ratty gray sheet of paper.

"Torn, assemble a team of your most trusted fighters." Samos placed the paper aside, searching through the next stack again. He pulled several more, placing them with the other. "I knew there was something going on in that prison, and I will not sit idly by this time."

"You can't be serious," Torn exclaimed, throwing his hands down. "If there's something dangerous there, then I'll go."

"Now Torn, they need you here for whatever it is you do after you assaulted Count Delmar for belittling Ashelin," Samos jabbed. He placed his staff down, reaching to pull himself back into his seat he left minutes before. "Besides, I am the only one here that is trained to deal with dark eco."

 _"Gave 'em a good one-two, eh Dreadlocks?"_

"I had to!" he snapped. "No one gets to call their governess that."

 _"A who—"_

"Promiscuous," Samos answered, flipping through the gathered texts. "And Daxter, one last thing."

 _"What?"_

"If you allow that idiot of a boy to ever do something like that again I will personally turn him, and you, into shrubs."

The other end cut off immediately after the threat, returning the communicator to its regular state of greyscale nothingness.

As if nothing else had happened, Samos continued reading through his selected papers thoroughly. Torn sat, watching the older man consistently flip page after page.

He just believed Daxter like that, about someone being able to manipulate dark eco. To top it all off, they just went to the abandoned prison, which collapsed during the fight for the city months prior. Even Vin's security camera checks had monitored no one made it into the facility, let alone even put a dent into the rubble that blocked off the only current entrance.

The back entrance, as foolhardy the designer had been, was compounded with several tons of steel.

Samos looked up abruptly, catching Torn's gaze in thought. "Weren't you going to assemble your best men for me? Or were you planning on letting an elderly man explore a prison alone?"

"There are always men who hate the nobles more than I do," Torn smirked. There was a list of them he could name off the top of his head.

"Good. If we find anything there, then I don't want any of those pretentious men getting ahold of it."

He sighed. The other Shadow was set in his ways, but at least he didn't want to do anything dangerous by himself.

* * *

Author's Note: Here it is: Chapter Eight. A little longer. Finally finishing up what's happening so everything with everyone so it can all come together with the next few chapters. Jak comes out of the shower to find Daxter and gets called off, Tess and Sig have a chat, and Torn is under house arrest. That's pretty much it, and I still hate how much talking to a communicator has gone on in the last two chapters. But what can you do? (Other than removing it entirely because how else would they talk? Having them all commune over in Haven for a little chat about 'someone is about to die' and that's it? Not in the slightest.) Hopefully, the next few chapters come up with a little more action like chapter six had, but written better.


	9. Chapter 9 - Fractured Past

**\- Chapter Nine - Fractured Past -  
**

"Anything over there?"

"Just another can," the man said dully. His hands remained at his gun, nostrils flaring with every sniff of the dank city. He was constantly on the lookout, and nothing changed except there was a scrawny man a distance away that, too, was holding a gun. However, unlike the battle-hardened veteran, the oblivious boy held it agitatedly against his chest, something he had smirked at. Tweaking movement from the other caused the smirk to grow into a grin before he picked up his foot. "Monster!"

Two faces turned as the words were spoken, the others remained stationary in the foreground as they continued. The rounded metal's side received the boot's invitation, sending itself soaring into the low-lit streets. The clunk, followed by a sharp sound, was the ground's only warning before being hit by a hunk of useless, scorched metal.

A woman's voice cut in a hushed scream. "This is a stealth mission, Kyrus!" Her eyes prodded over to the one that fired off the sharp sound, standing wide-eyed in their spot. "Look what you've done to Marrik. He's frightened out his wits! Should have shot you as well as the can."

Kyrus smirked as he walked over to the shaking boy. As the brown eyes looked upwards they were sent back with a twitch as the older man's hand came down on the shoulder with a tight, reaffirming grip that there was nothing to worry about. "You gotta lighten up, kid. It's just a joke, right? The only monsters here are the nobles, and they don't munch on kids."

Why they green-lighted a boy without any fuzz on his chin for a mission like this was beyond the two. The youngest recruit Kyrus admitted to ever seeing, probably due to lying on his de-facto application to join the Resistance when it was still around. If he could lie to Torn with those pearly whites and pre-teen green eyes, then why not send him on a mission to the worst of the city?

The boy was dazed from the false attack. He produced a week smile, the only thing he could offer to the one who brought him to such a delirious state. He gulped before looking to Izobel for confirmation that it was just a joke. However, he only found a turned, purple-haired head in her place.

"We're losing the others," she sighed, looking at the group of four that was a distance away. The light green aura was still in eyeshot after what happened, and the outline of the other three soldiers was visible. Her displeased look was turned into a confused, but placid, smile that found itself somewhat sympathetic as she saw the still quivering Marrik look at her. "Let's go, huh? All the real action is up there with that salty old sage."

"Action. Yeah," the boy said, giving an attempt at a laugh before following her. They walked off in the direction of the dim, green light.

Kyrus began to grunt, rolling up the sleeves on his personally degrading, standard-issue military camo outfit. It was something everyone had worn for years, but only Kyrus had gone through with it as he missed the memo concerning mission attire. Even the pants were camouflage, a nonchalant touch in the heat of Haven's summers, something both Izobel and Marrik missed out on by wearing a set of dark green with a tank top, which had no tactical advantage, and what looked like something he'd find in the slums garbage pile, respectively. The only thing that made them stand out was the light armor they wore.

It all came up to another point in Kyrus' internal monologue: why does no one tell him anything?

"You've heard stories about him before, right?" Izobel asked, pointing off to the forward distance with the butt of her gun. She began her new tangent as they both began walking faster to get away from the man who realized he was going to be left alone and began pacing to catch up. Those same brown eyes had temporarily glossed over in wonder as they turned to her, saying otherwise at her innocent notion of storytelling.

Another quick turn from the blonde to make sure her young companion was alright didn't reassure her as he continued to delve wildly into the darkened landscape around him. She turned to Kyrus, understanding what Torn had said about him. He was only in his late twenties and was in more battles than any on the team. For a Haven veteran, the constant checking of his surroundings would cause him to catch any eye that glanced his way. Unfortunately, it was that way with him when it came from the look of a woman.

As if the story was true, he caught her smug look. He turned immediately from fumbling around with the scorched tin can and began grunting softly as he began to close the distance between him and the group that was already lagging behind the main. "Wait, let me catch up!"

He was quite the idiot for a veteran too.

Ignoring his complaints, Izobel tilted her head with a smirk. It was always good to get the mind off the mission, and this may have been the kids first. "They say the old man is more ancient than the city itself. Kept alive for hundreds of years because of the eco that runs through his veins." Catching the glimpse she was given by Marrik, she jokingly raised an eyebrow, "But, I'd say he's no older than any of us."

"I, for one, don't think any of us are four-hundred years old," Kyrus said, out of breath. He had finally managed to catch up, breathing heavily as Marrik inched closer to the original speaker. "Except maybe Kaysin, but who knows with that one. He's more guarded than Praxis was."

Disregarding the last bit about one of her comrades, she gave him a silly look before rolling her eyes, "You know that's not what I meant."

The green light continued before them, slowly pacing along the city streets illuminating every crack and crevice. It was oblivious to any fault of the city, widely enveloping the rubble to create shadows that danced vividly among the stone. They weren't going to wait for the three to catch up.

"You mean how those eco weirdos sometimes age faster?" Kyrus guessed. He began to fiddle with his brown hair as he pulled some out, letting it drop to the ground. "My folks always said it was a side effect of it all, like how hair loss is from killing people. Dad said you can play the Precursors all you want, but in the end, you die. Simple as that." Pulling at his hair again, he looked to Izobel, "got any more of that cocofruit milk? Could really use some for this."

Marrik twitched a brief grimace at Kyrus' words before rolling his eyes. "He can hear you, y'know."

"Yeah, right." Gazing over at the walking elderly man, Kyrus narrowed his eyes. If that man could hear anything, then there was certainly no indication of it. "And the Precursors are a bunch of rats and that old—oof!" He gasped, slamming directly into the back of Izobel. "What'd you stop for?"

"Told you," Marrik whispered. Without addressing either, he pointed at the stopped man in front of them. "He heard."

"Heard my nose break," Kyrus groaned, feeling up his face to make sure nothing had broken when he slammed into the plate of back armor that Izobel donned. For backstabbing purposes, she had mentioned, not breaking noses. "You really needed to wear all that, huh?"

"Shhh," she returned, placing her finger on his lips.

The man standing before them stood still. His already faint aura grew weaker for the passing moment as the charcoal black walls loomed over them, sending the once dancing shadows scurrying behind the desolate landscape of the ruined city. The remaining three soldiers stood around him without the spell of petrification that had fallen upon the sage.

The smaller of the three approached the sage sedately, nudging his arm slightly with the butt of the blaster they held. For a moment, he had returned to reality, only to faze off once more. "Sh-Samos, sir?" she asked, correcting themself as the threat of a heavy, oaken cane crashing down upon them rested in the back of their mind. They gently grasped his shoulder, asking again; "Sir, is everything alright? We've arrived."

Samos shook his head violently, knocking the resting bird from its perch as it flew up to a safe distance. The branch it had rested on shifted, no longer being a suitable place to land except for bristles of grey hair, which, when the sage began rubbing beneath his spectacles, it turned to and nestled itself down in.

"Sir?" The soldier asked again.

"Yes. Yes, I'm alright," Samos answered mechanically. He looked around, disorientated at his surroundings. "It is just that…" his face turned heavy as he looked at the brash walls, "I am terribly bemused at the lack of work done on this dreadful place considering how much importance it holds to the nobles."

"Perhaps they have lost interest in the prison?" The soldier guessed. "The nobility are known for caring little about what they don't physically own. There is no use for such a place as long as they don't remain in power."

Giving a doubtful look to the woman, Kyrus shook his head. For someone rumored to have a celestial appearance, she was always devoid of any smiles. She did presume a dignified air to her, much like an angel, and took her position in the guard quite seriously. However, angels never did have onyx hair, and especially had more flattering styles than tucking it all back in a military bun. Much to his regret, her wit, and her jawline, were as sharp as her shooting. Both of her eyes and her gun.

"Kyrus? You had something to say?" She had raised an eyebrow to him as they made contact, partly wondering why he had begun to size her up.

"Just doubtful about the last words," he kicked in. "You know how polished they like their pieces. And they do think they're in power, Coledy."

Another guard, far back compared to the other, parted their lips momentarily. His ears, one cut to a stump, jittered as his mouth closed with a heavy sigh. He watched as Marrik pushed himself to the side near the now open gateway to the prison. The gun was still held tight, steadily as if he were preparing to fire the moment something were to pop out. They had, however, managed to catch Izobel's gaze as he instead showed her the top of his bald head. Agitated that, once again, he refused to voice his opinion, or that the one next to him had their arms folded just watching the sage's situation.

"Nevermind," Samos said, silently shrugging to himself. This wasn't the proper time to discuss what the nobles may, or may not for that matter, be up to with the prison. He shifted to the man with the folded arms. "Now, Elrize, is everything in working order from when you last scouted the prison? I want this to be done fast and I believe Torn said you were the best."

"Did he now?" The guard smiled. He relaxed his arms as he pulled out an old scanner from his back pocket, flicking a switch on the top to bring the machine to life. He pressed the large center button sending a hologram of the prison's levels upwards from the red sphere in the middle. It tappered for a second, only to appear largely in green light, followed by the labeled entrances, exits, and areas of importance with a flashing black dot. "Here we are then. Everything inside is clear, and there truly was nothing of importance to report during the scouting other than the slight disturbance at the front end when clearing up the rubble."

"Good," Samos nodded. He fixed his spectacles, looking at the hologram before taking another glance at the current party. "We'll have to divide and conquer the prison's levels to finish this before the sun rises. Torn has told me that you are the best men that he had. Your governess has the same thinking as that man, and are you going to prove them wrong on the matter?"

Several of the guards turned to a halted formation: arms behind their back in a power stance before saying 'no, sir.' It was a pep talk, the first Samos had ever given, and four of the six was a good enough place to start as some were ex-KG.

"Coledy and Kaysin, since you both have been into the prison before, I'll need you to lead your own groups. Elrize, you are to read that map of yours while we go through the lower levels while Coledy guides us through this... place," Samos said, confirming the plans with the two guards, who nodded. "Kaysin, take Izobel and Marrik through the upper levels since while Kyrus, you stay in the entrance to continue contact with both groups."

"Sir," Izobel began, raising an eyebrow to the old sage. "Don't you think there's just one problem with all of this?"

"And what exactly would that be?"

"Going in blindly on a mission has never been the best thing to do, now has it?" She cocked a questioning look Samos' way. "We've never been told _what_ we're searching for."

"Yeah, we really never did get much info on the mission," Kyrus added, copying Izobel by raising an eyebrow. "Something about getting info on the nobles' next big plan doesn't add up when you're in that deep, dank place instead of just asking around. Y'know? A few coins in the right pocket will get you more than this will."

"I, too, believe there is more to the mission," Coledly chimed in, looking at Samos before the look left her face, going downwards to the cold, stone street as she caught his worried look. "That is unless there is a greater purpose in not telling us our assigned mission to complete."

"There is, Coledy," Izobel reaffirmed, taking the action of Elrize as she crossed her arms and spitefully frowned at her stationary commander. "We're risking our lives here, so I think we deserve to know."

Samos' lips protruded for a second, puckering slightly as he readied the thought in his mind. That was where he was told the problem would occur, and it wasn't necessarily a wrong prediction. Several soldiers here were once members of the Krimzon Guard, though never truly as loyal as some to join the Freedom League, they all were to have some opinion on the matter at hand, with Torn deciding it best to tell them beforehand. However, with what Samos no longer agreed with, it was thought best to tell them a rouse of the nobility's interest in the prison.

It was one thing to say they were going to support their governess, which they were by rescinding their chances of ever continuing to live if she were to fail, but this is much more. None in this city were loyal to the man they called an 'eco-freak.' It was dangerous grounds that even the sage himself dared not travel, though it was something he dearly regretted many times.

"Well?" Kyrus prodded, glaring daggers through the darkness of the dimly lit city streets. "We deserve to know what we're doing here. If anyone finds us here that isn't loyal to our governess, we're dead."

Kaysin opened his mouth, following the sage that had done the same. However, unlike Samos, he had closed it but gained the attention of Kyrus, who was still less than pleased. "Oh, now you got something to say, Quiet-boy?"

Blinking haphazardly at the nickname, he stood up. Kaysin, for the third and final time, opened his mouth as he went to the prison walls. "It's here... Dark Warrior Project."

Samos was the first to change his stance at the sentence. He spun around quickly to the one who had spoken it as if it were an ancient curse. His head dropped solemnly as the truth came out, alerting the others to what they were all really there for.

The Dark Warrior Project.

Even the youngest of the group had come to learn of the name, his once tanned hands turned into white husks of fear that turned white as they stagnantly gripped around his gun. Elrize dropped his arrogant cool at the words, finding himself sitting on a stray brick. Izobel, too, was at a loss for words, and even Kyrus lost his spunk attitude.

They had all learned as to what transpired during that infamous project one way or another. Through other guards or Resistance members, hushed whispers at the bar, or even by working directly with the project. It was, after all, what simultaneously created the monster that singlehandedly defeated the metalheads and became the thing of nightmares to the most astute of warriors.

The eco-freak.

"So, it is true. Isn't it, Samos?" Coledy questioned, finding the answer in the man's solemn face. "We are here about The Project. That was why I was asked…"

"I don't want to know nothing about that," Marrik whimpered to himself, looking to the ground defeated.

"There's nothing to worry about," Izobel comforted, still trying to contain the façade. "Everyone knows he left for the desert and never came back."

Giving another sorrowful glance at the prison's walls, Samos conjured the strength to come to the realization of it all. "There is good reason as to why I feigned in telling you all," he said, sighing as he looked out to the others. "It was my intention to not rile up the situation due to something I regret in life. Allowing that project to go on was something I, nor you governess or leader, could continue to live with. If only I had known earlier, it wouldn't have been like this."

"That thing Praxis created?" Kyrus began, his voice rising to a deep growl as he spoke on, "we all regret so much about that thing. We should have killed it when we had the chance. It did it to so many others, and what did we do? We just let it walk."

"You, above all, should know how much he's slaughtered," Elrize added. He gave a distasteful glance towards Samos. "Was it now your decision to let him live all those times?"

"Kyrus," Izobel hesitated, reaching out to grab Kyrus' shoulder. "Calm down."

"No! I will not calm down, Iz!" He barked, throwing her hand away as his anger returned to the crestfallen man before him. "We're going into this place for that thing? You probably want to save the damn eco-freak from a fate worse than the end of my gun. And for what? Because he was the biggest pawn in the entire Resistance?"

"Kyrus…"

"Shut it, Izobel!" Kyrus spat. "You don't know what that thing has done to me. Hell, to the others!"

"We all do, Kyrus," Coledy interrupted. "Do not think that none of us have lost something because of what came from that project. Izobel is trying to calm down the tension you've created."

"And it is true that we do owe this remarked 'eco-freak' quite a bit. Not only did he save the Resistance in its darkest hour, but he also managed to defeat both our enemies simultaneously," Elrize said, going closer to the mute sage. "But, once more, there is always another side to every story. Isn't that right, Samos?"

All Samos could do was continue standing. It wasn't as if he couldn't run his tongue off, one of the deadliest weapons he ever had the gift to carry, but it was that the air of pride that had ever once encompassed him that wavered as his thoughts ran dangerously free. He was warned of this by it before but rather took the folly on his own shoulders to save him some peace of mind.

He knew the story of every member here, reading over them so much that he knew each of them by heart. They had all lost something to the war, some more related to Jak than others, but Kyrus was an exception. It was second nature to a man to hate something that took everything away from him.

"Perhaps you are all in the right to be as wary as you are now," Samos began. He offered eye contact to many of those around him in a plea for some sympathy, but it fell on deaf ears. It was against his nature, but what hadn't been these days? His mouth cornered down as they awaited his next words. "You all see him as a monster, for that is what the Baron had created. But none of you know him as I had."

"That's what he was, right? A monster."

"A monster is what you made of him, Kyrus," objected Samos. "Nay, there never was a reason to see him through different lenses than the red you were offered since birth. He was once a young boy. One I raised many years ago. He was not just some freak you all fear. Not just one you all find yourself crawling to whenever the need for him arises."

"I think it would be safe to say some of us wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him, too," Izobel reluctantly said. There was no point in fueling the fire any more than it already was, but she could still do with a last-ditch attempt to put it out. "Whatever our feelings are on the matter are to be cast aside. First and foremost, this is a mission. Remember?"

The strain on his composure retreated momentarily as his face twisted into that of revulsion and confusion. "The mission?"

"We've still got to search this place from top to bottom. Just because it changed from one thing to another doesn't mean anything," she said, gently smiling to Kyrus. It was working, as far as she could tell, as his body relaxed. "Even if it feels like a taboo, that doesn't mean we can't do good for someone who risked their life for this city."

Gathering his thoughts, Kyrus looked around. Not that there was much chatter before the bout, the hushed group had remained silent after. Elrize and Coledy watched on as Kaysin sat there, empty minded. Marrik had not stirred, gun in hand, while Samos stared on. Abashed by their part in it all, they had subconsciously agreed to no longer get involved in his rage.

"Have it your way," he snarled. "You can do whatever you want in that prison. Die for all I care. I'm just not getting involved with that—."

"And _you_ won't have to," Samos interrupted, returning to his place in the conversation. "You will only be making sure that our connection remains intact. It is vital that we can contact Torn, as well as each other, at any given time."

Kyrus breathed deeply, reaching around him to grab the large bag off his back. He narrowed his eyes at the sage before unzipping the military-style backpack, pulling out the large computer case and turning it on with a low beep. "Fine. But, this is all that I will do. Understand?"

"It would be best for you to bleat about your losses out here, acting as if no one else has lost something to that project," Samos churlishly responded. He spun to face the prison before walking off, looking back at the man sitting with the open computer one last time. "As Izobel said, the mission is what is important. You will do what you were commanded to do."

Kaysin quietly followed Samos into the prison's entrance, as did Coledy after nodding off to Izobel. Raising an eyebrow to Kyrus, and receiving a less than pretentious remark in return, Elrize rolled his eyes and made way to join those further in. Marrik waited for Izobel, the only team member that had not just gone in without him, who winked at the man in charge of communication before leaving.

Waiting for the sound of footsteps to wane, Kyrus whipped out a small case from his back pocket before heading into the entrance corridor. He planted himself into a seat, presumably that of the guards who sat at the front gate and opened it. He grinned as he grabbed the small, opaque chip from within, placing it into the reader on his computer.

A beep clattered until a low, gruff voice shot out. _"Update?"_

"They've entered the prison in two groups as you said. I've been set to transfer messages."

 _"Good. Let us know if anything changes."_

* * *

The sun bleated down on the soft sands that shifted through every loose paving stone. The metal of the buggies laid bare for the scorching rays, sending the light gleaming onto the wastelander working under the shade-giving roof of a make-shift canopy of rusted metal sheets. Only a few remained in the Spargan garage, the tracks of those that left hours before now gone to the wind.

Spargus took on the role of a ghost town.

Every now and then, a rouge kangarat would come through, investigate, and wallow away at the lack of vegetation and other foods to steal. There was no food to spare, and it seemed as if no more would come in. The foragers and fishers did not report in, desert traders due for Spargus did not come through, and what little food kept for these situations would only last a week at best if not replenished.

The great desert city survived worse with less food, but that was not the problem.

In the eyes of Kleiver, one of the only remaining wastelanders, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. The day was the most normal he's had in the past few weeks, and that was supposed to qualify for a good day.

The past few days though? That was a different story.

The other wastelanders have all been spouting nonsense. The blokes from that city said he died saving the world, but here he came crawling back with the boy blunder like a postie. Saying his majesty couldn't handle a small dozy outside the wasteland? Utter garbage.

It served them right being sent out there for bringing up such lies about their king.

Sure, it may have been better to do some investigating first, then maybe he wouldn't have rung the neck of the first man to utter the words. Damas, king of the wastelands, and past ruler of that shiny dump in the horizon, couldn't handle a meet and greet with that cobber death herself? That was the word: garbage. Baloney if he'd ever heard of it.

Damas wasn't the one doing it, and Kleiver knew that for a fact.

It was that dark-skinned floozy he'd brought in.

Sig was called out on a mission back to the city without any rest. Forced to leave, if you ask any wastelander. Said he and the boy saw some kind of monster out there. Something with hundreds of teeth and smelled of death. It killed some marauders too, and it seemed as if it were all for that box Sig dropped off.

A big monster going after some precursor junk was one thing, but the rampant scourge of offsiders leaving on missions to either the depths of the wasteland or to find those missing foragers was another. If a beast like that were out there, then they'd be saying their prayers that those rat's ship comes crashing down on them.

A wastelander could take one, but that wasn't the problem. If there was one, then there would be more. And that, dare he admit, left Kleiver a little on edge.

The best thing to take the edge off of forced conscription was, of course, to work on his ride. It was the second one this month, the first not being fast enough to even take on that blue-eyed bloke with the aid of those damnable marauders on his own track. Granted he took a liking to the new blondie, this one as faster, stronger, and mean enough to take him out this time. A nice piece of metal he'd been waiting go test on a couple of metal monkeys that still wandered their way near the city walls.

That is if he'd ever be graced to have the chance of going on another mission. That blow in Damas took a liking to strolled in one day, unannounced, and he took a liking to her. Not that this was the first time his majesty did it, what with the shortie and his rat at least being... valuable. This one waltzed in as if she owned the place, even having the nerve to ask Kleiver who he was. The man who practically ran the place in the stead of the man she groveled over when Sig was out of commission.

Now, there's one thing about having a fair shake of the sauce bottle over a woman like that, but that was the catch. Damas wasn't the man to lust over something that wasn't the pride of war, or whatever Kleiver knew that the king considered to be fun. He wasn't even the one for those talking rodent's fireworks and metal ship or even the gimmick of a possible feast in the middle of a desert.

All fur and bones on those things, though that middle one would have made a tastier stew than that one he thought was high and mighty.

After those fleabags left was when everything went south. Kleiver grunted at the thought as he fastened on a new bolt for the buggy seat. They may not look like gods, but they did act like them. Leave when the going gets rough. That didn't bother him. He never believed in them anyways, and even after seeing them he still didn't.

What did bother him was what was going to happen next.

A large rumble echoed through the garage as the gate from the city opened. Kleiver gazed over, looking to see if he needed to raise another buggy for more wastelanders being sent out. He didn't.

Speak the devil's name, and she'll come knocking.

Much to Kleiver's disgust, she herself had come strutting along the wind-broken path of patchwork stone. Though a woman of that caliber walking over a wastelander was something considered a sight for sore eyes, he wasn't much of one for that type. Manipulative and sneaky, not slim.

If she had come alone, then anyone in their right mind would ignore whatever she had to say. She was no wastelander but with Seem her voice held more weight. Too much weight for her body to hold, but the monks were Damas' eyes and ears of the wasteland, giving him advice whenever he needed.

And who was Kleiver to ignore a possible order from Damas?

The repetitiveness of it was hackneyed. It was the same ever hour or so: soft footsteps of the monk followed the harsh clacks of metal heals, scraping against every poor rock that found itself in her path. She would announce that Damas sent her down to say there was to be another group sent out, and how she hoped the others would return safely. That was rubbish if Kleiver ever saw any.

At the sound of the metal standing still, Kleiver deeply sighed. He tightened the last bolt before putting away his lug wrench and stood up. The tire was fixed, and now these two needed fixing. "You and the sook in the need for a bit o' help, are ya?"

"Quite the perceptive man as always, Carver," Orphne said, smiling. Seem stood a distance away, violet-red eyes staring blankly ahead.

"Kleiver," he said obtrusively. His hands were already being wiped on the not-so-white cloth, now covered in oil.

Orphne blinked. She glanced around confusedly before ignoring what Kleiver had said. Looking around the garage, there were sparsely any hints if habitation save the man, who for her very knowledge had said the name the of the knife that was certainly his specialty tool from seeing the mangled and cut parts. "Those foragers have not returned I take it?"

Kleiver raised an eyebrow. "Whaddya think?" he quipped. He tossed the wrench in the jagged box with the rest, whipping off his oil rag and throwing it in too.

How suspicious was it that everything happened right after the broad in bronze showed up? And how the blondie and his rat left right after too. Damas gave Jak that metal armor, and it seemed he did the same for her.

Her arms closed together in a crossed bar as she rolled her eyes. "Of course. I didn't expect them to anyhow."

"What's that s'pposed to mean exactly?"

"Oh, nothing," Orphne said. She huffed and looked around her, eyeing the buggy that Kleiver had begun work on. The sudden scowl on the man's face as her hand approached it did not sway her from touching it, passing her hand down the metallic shaft. "Working on something new, are we?"

"I know you didn't come for chit-chat," Kleiver snorted. He looked to Seem, still as quiet as before. "You here for something, monk?"

Reddish-violet continued to stare at the desert sands, not wavering at the man's remark.

Orphne pushed herself in front of the monk, tilting her head and smiling. "They're just here to confirm something for me. There isn't a need to bother them."

With a gruff, Kleiver relaxed. "I think I need to confirm somethin' too. Why are you wasting my time?"

"Wasting?" Orphne raised a hand to her lips and laughed slightly. She caught herself, blinking as her face lightened. "Well, it seems that Lord Damas believes it to be a good idea that I study an artifact that just came in."

"I didn't report any new artifact coming in."

"Of course you didn't," she returned, shaking both her head and shoulders sarcastically. "A man named Shig did."

"Sig."

"That's what I said, Sig," she huffed, crossing her arms as she continued. "The artifact was a box. I do hope it wasn't damaged. You people are ever so callous with how you deal with things."

Kleiver cracked his knuckles, scowling at Orphne. "I'll damage something all right,"

"Yes, quite intimidating," Orphne wanely remarked. She rolled her eyes again and ran her fingers through her hair before giving a glinting look to the wastelander. "Now, the box?"

Another gruff grunt of disapproval came from Kleiver. She'd have no use for the damn box anyways, not like there was anything in it as it was as hollow as her head would be if she weren't one of Damas' call girls.

Now, where was it? The back of his buggy?

"You know, my time is quite precious," She said, giving a bored look."If you won't get it yourself, then I will."

"Be my guest, lady," Kleiver jeered. "You'll find right over there."

"In your... whatever that is?"

"My ride." Kleiver smacked the hood of the buggy, spurring the ride to shake. "On the liftgate."

"Yes... wonderful," Orphne said, pulling back her lips to expose white teeth. She let out a breath of air and walked to the buggy, stopping as she looked inside. "There it is... after all these years."

Kleiver moved over, doing his best to not watch Orphne bend over the back of the buggy. Her face gleamed in excitement, eyes narrowing as she licked her teeth. Her backside was revealed, as were other areas, as she reached in and grabbed the box. She held it, inspected it, bit her lip, and breathed deeply to calm herself.

Pretending to not look her over, Kleiver twisted his head away. He really didn't see what Damas liked in her. There was no meat.

She traced her fingers around the intricate markings on the box, leading her to the center divet beneath the small handle. Her chest swelled as she took another breath, gulping as hands grew tight around it. "...finally."

"You done?"

Orphne lifted her head. Her face returned to a displeasing smile as she saw who spoke. "Yes. This is all that I- we came for."

Resting his hands on his stomach, Kleiver began tapping his fingers on his metal belt. "You'll find it time that you leave then. All that 'research' must keep you pre-occupied."

"I've researched this exact artifact for years. Every groove and mark, here as they were in the texts. Only now that the Precursors have left has it come into our hands. The unimaginable power of this relic... and all I need now is the key."

"Eh, do what ya' want," Kleiver said, shrugging. The box was useless junk, like everything else they found, anyways. The only thing it would have done is end up in some snoddy collection in Haven.

"I'll take my leave," grinned Orphne. Her eye twitched violently as she laughed to herself. The gate was only a few yards away, but Kleiver could see every violent jolt in her movement. "Brace yourself for the coming storm, wastelander."

Kleiver shook his head as the gate shut behind the quiet monk and the cackling woman. Damas always did have a thing for the crazy types.

* * *

Author's Note: Hey everyone! I'm back from an unannounced and unexpected hiatus, I guess? I apologize for kind of just up and abandoning this story for about 3 months because I didn't have any time whatsoever, but now I actually might? (Well, I had enough time to write an entire two-section chapter again with new characters). However, I will hopefully return to writing but it will definitely take longer than the two week periods it took for me to write each other chapter now. Either way, my writing has changed and I kind of forgot how these characters would act, and also I've added so many new characters because of the prison section (I didn't want to do a "guard No. 1" kind of thing so I gave them names and kind of some sort of personality and backstory?). Overall, I've never made any original characters before and I've never had to put in descriptions of people in a story, so sorry if that messed up whatever flow was left.

I don't know how much is left in this story, but I am going to finish it. I don't know which route I'm going to go yet, but It might go up to like chapter 20? (With how long it took me to post chapter 9, it'll be done in a few years. Hopefully less than a year if I get back into the writing mood.)


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